


If Gold Rust, What Shall Iron Do?

by looncandy



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, Biblical References, Eventual Smut, Internalized Homophobia, Knight Schofield, M/M, Mutual Pining, Mystery, Period-Typical Homophobia, Prince Blake, Slow Burn, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 13:36:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 38,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22912747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/looncandy/pseuds/looncandy
Summary: It is 14th Century England. Prince Thomas resides in Windsor Castle, finding very little fulfilment in his dominion over a small fraction of his father’s kingdom. But when an assassination attempt against the prince’s life is foiled by a mysterious young knight, Thomas finds his very existence thrown into turmoil as he must make a choice between love and duty.
Relationships: Tom Blake/William Schofield
Comments: 157
Kudos: 400





	1. Blood and Steel

**Author's Note:**

> So... this is my first ever fic. I thought having a degree in medieval art history would make this au a walk in the park but... I was so wrong. I really second guessed even putting this up, but there are so few fics in this fandom (cry) that I thought it couldn't hurt. This fic should be around 15,000 words, but I'm still editing so you never know! Pls leave kudos, comments etc (even if its constructive criticism, I wanna get better at this ol' writing malarkey). Thanks!
> 
> Also, btw, I was inspired by this gif set on tumblr:
> 
> [medieval-blakefield-au](https://schofeild.tumblr.com/post/190951917862/love-at-first-sight-medieval-blakefield-au)

The King is not a foolish man.

It seems so clear, so obvious, that his eldest son, Joseph, will take the throne when his day of judgement arrives, but it does not do well to take such predictions as objective truths. Being the youngest of five brothers, all deceased, the King knows all too well how fate can pull the rug from under your feet.

Joseph is not like his father. Joseph is a born king: patient, strong, courageous and charismatic; England will flourish under his rule. But fate likes to play its cruel tricks, especially when it has been tempted. It is better to be over-prepared, the King knows all too well the sudden burden of a title that he never expected nor ever desired.

And so, in his moments of reverie, he allows his thoughts to drift to his youngest son, Thomas. Certainly, Thomas has Joseph’s charisma, his warmth; but his heart is as soft as his hands, hands that have never once seen a hard day’s work.

Thomas must be tested if one day, God forbid, he is to supersede his brother.

The King sends Thomas to Windsor, to reside over the county and provide stewardship to its inhabitants. His mother goes with him. It is not a difficult task, more likely to bring tediousness than hazard, but the King knows all too well the strain of leading a kingdom of disparate peoples, all with opposing desires. Thomas will do well to learn even a small portion of the burden such a responsibility brings.

The night following Thomas’ departure, the King sleeps easy in his bed. Rigorous preparation is the enemy of fate. All will be well.

****************************************

Spring comes on the day exactly two months since Thomas’ arrival at Windsor. The wind is still harsh and biting as it whistles through the draughty castle, but there is a new warmth to it, a promise of new beginnings.

Even so, Thomas cannot prevent a shiver as he dresses that morning. If the chamberlain notices, he does not pass judgement. Such a brazen comment upon the steeliness of the prince’s spirit would class as a punishable offence, after all. As he shivers, Thomas tries to think of the people under his stewardship: the poor households without glass panes for their windows or great fireplaces in every room. A good King must be mindful of those without comfort or shelter, whilst also conscious of his superior position. This is what his father tells him, anyhow.

But when performing his daily meeting in the outer courtyard with the aforementioned unfortunate souls, Thomas cannot prevent the spark of resentment that threatens to set alight within him. It is so easy to beg, to demand comfort from a higher power; these people should try attempting to assuage their problems. It is impossible to please everyone and sometimes Thomas wonders if he should even try.

But the day passes like any other, Thomas does not act out, Thomas does not sway from his routine. Though he imagines moments of rebellion, they never come to pass. Thomas always does what he is told.

The smell of spring almost lifts his mood. Such an imperceptible shift from the metallic sharpness of winter to a kind of florid roundness, a gentle scent like a loving caress. As he takes his solitary, daily meal, Thomas gazes out of the window. The sky is blue, a stark contrast to the hard-white helmet that sought to imprison him for the past few months. The cherry blossom will be out soon; there are three cherry trees in cook’s garden, nestled surreptitiously in a sea of apples and quince. But Thomas is not supposed to venture to the orchard. He is Lord of this castle, and yet there is so much of it that he cannot tread. 

When Thomas holds court at four o’clock that afternoon, there is still sunlight that shines through the windows, glittering hopefully, albeit weakly, on the rough paving stones of the great hall. The hall is cold and unfriendly, the great wall-length tapestries hanging throughout it doing little to assuage the sharp bite of English weather.

Court is usually a perfunctory affair. There is often little monastic business for Thomas to attend to, what with his father still active and more than up to the task of ruling over his dominion from the Palace of Westminster. Thomas receives the dregs, the run-off pile of matters to attend to that filters down from London, very little affairs of importance and even less of interest.

But today the hall is nearly full. Taking his seat at the head table between his mother and the Lord High Steward, Erinmore, Thomas stares around at the sea of faces, many of them unfamiliar.

“There is much business today,” Erinmore murmurs under his breath, taking the thoughts straight from Thomas’ own mind.

“Indeed. And thus, you must be strong, Thomas. Strong and imposing. There are eyes here that hold hostile gazes.” With her words, the Queen gives Thomas a brief smile, as fleeting as smoke, before schooling her features back into their customary mask of serenity.

Thomas does not reply. To his estimation, a fuller hall simply means a longer and more tedious court session. Nothing to worry oneself with.

And, indeed, as the time passes achingly slowly, with each request or invitation or debate more monotonous than the one preceding it, Thomas finds his attention starting to slip. A nobleman with fears of a peasant revolt is granted the services of three knights to reinforce order, a minstrel charged with blasphemy is ordered to pay a fine, and so it goes on and on and on and on.

Thomas shifts in his hard, wooden chair, trying to hide his boredom but unable to contain his fidgeting. His mother’s eyes slide briefly onto him, a simple look chastisement enough, and Thomas stills.

Court continues on.

It is halfway through a debate between two local landowners upon the exact lines of separation between their respective fields of wheat that Thomas becomes aware of a skirmish occurring in the corridor just outside. A few members of the crowd become aware of the interruption as Thomas does, disapproving faces peering around, trying to find the source of such impertinence. The two landowners do not notice, too embroiled in heated debate, it seems.

Raised voices travel closer and closer until suddenly the great oak doors are thrown open and a man comes bolting into the room.

The crowd gives a respective gasp of surprise and horror, and one of the landowners, who had been droning on for at least ten minutes at this point, falters and then falls quiet. All turn to look at this man, who stumbles forwards, bent double with his arm at his stomach. He is neither thin nor fat but middling, with lank, reddish hair and the uniform of a cupbearer.

“My Lord!” The man’s words come out in a chilling cry of anguish. He lurches closer to the table and then falls to his knees. A murmur of shock and several screams ripple through the audience. With the man’s arms now hanging limply at his side, a wet patch of darkest red is revealed to be blooming at his stomach, stark against his pale cotton tunic.

Thomas is on his feet before he realises it, starting jerkily towards the wretched figure. His mother clings half-heartedly to his sleeve but Thomas shrugs her off, making his way around the table and closing the distance between himself and the wounded man. He does not stop to think why he feels so desperately sure that he must help, Thomas knows from experience that if you did not act fast in these matters, there would be nothing you could do when push came to shove. And he has always detested the sight of another’s suffering.

“This man requires a physician!” Thomas shouts, falling to the floor at the man’s side. There is a flurry of movement around him, but Thomas pays it no mind. He scrabbles at the man’s tunic, finding an opening and then pulling it apart, attempting to find the source of the bleeding. His fingers slide against blood and slick skin, pawing desperately, and yet he finds no wound.

“I don’t understand… Where were you…” Thomas mutters distractedly, before noticing that the man has gone very still beneath him.

He lifts his head.

And when their eyes meet, several things happen all at once. The man’s face contorts itself into a gruesome smirk; he raises his hand and Thomas sees a glittering of metal within its bloody grip; and then Thomas is being shoved backwards, his head crunching sickeningly onto the hard, stone floor.

Through the ringing in his ears, Thomas vaguely registers his mother’s bloodcurdling shriek, but then the man is crawling up his body and all Thomas can see is wild, sunken eyes staring into his own, all he can smell is sweat and rotten breath, and the pain in his skull is reaching its peak as the man’s arm is swinging upwards…

The man stills. His mouth falls open in a silent scream. His eyes bulge hideously in their sockets, but then suddenly they go blank, unseeing. The man falls forward, his lifeless body bracketing Thomas’, the clatter of the knife falling from his open fist ringing out in the frozen room.

Thomas’ eyes travel upwards, beyond the mass of greasy hair obscuring his face. A man is standing at his feet. A knight. In his hand he grips a sword, loosely. His eyes are wide with shock, his lips parted, and he is drenched in blood.

The tension breaks.

Arms are pulling the man’s body from Thomas, hands reaching out to help him up and check his body for wounds. His head pulses with pain, and he feels dizzy and unsubstantial, as if his body were a feather being buffeted through a gale. With his numbed senses slowly dawning, he absent-mindedly realises that the front of his doublet is wet and sticky. Blood. His own? No. The man’s.

And through his entire reverie, Thomas’ eyes do not leave the knight’s. Their gaze the only connective thread in a situation which does not seem real anymore. Thomas clings to those eyes, so deep and expressive, the most physical thing in the room.

“Thomas! Thomas!” His mother is howling in his ear. Thomas does not answer. He waves away hands that cling to his body, trying to communicate to their owners that he is fine, he is _fine. _

“You!” Someone shouts, and the knight’s eyes snap away from Thomas’ to face the speaker. It is Erinmore.

“What is your name?” Erinmore continues, pointing his finger at the knight, his face red and blotchy.

“Sir William Schofield.” The knight stammers.

“You are employed here? At Windsor?”

“Yes.”

“I do not recognise you.”

“I have been stationed at Cranbourne for the past five months. Land disputes, unrest. I was on patrol.” Schofield responds curtly, but his voice shakes slightly. He is still frozen to the spot, his sword still swinging loosely from his hand.

Erinmore goes to reply but Thomas cuts him off.

“You saved my life.” As soon as the words fall from Thomas’ lips, Schofield gaze falls once again upon him. The room is still and silent.

“You saved my life.” Thomas says again, though he knows he must be coming across as infantile. Schofield nods shakily, a slight smile ghosting his lips.

“I think… I think we need to get everybody out.” The Queen says in a small voice, and then, after clearing a throat, “And… dispose… of this man.”

There is a beat of silence, a moment of utter stillness, and then everybody is moving at once. Guards usher the crowd out of the room and a few servants spring forwards and begin dragging the spread-eagled corpse away. Thomas watches the trail of blood that the man’s body paints over the flagstones, mesmerised by its darkness. He idly imagines that it is his own body that is being dragged away, just for a moment. It so easily could have been a reality.

Once the room is emptied out, the Queen turns to Schofield. As soon as her eyes fall upon him, Schofield lowers himself hastily onto one knee, letting his head fall in recognition of her position.

“I think I speak for everyone when I express my deepest gratitude for your actions here. You have more than proven yourself worthy of the chivalric order that claims you. Thank you, Sir William.”

“It is my duty to defend the Lord from those who wish to harm him, Your Highness.” Schofield replies, his eyes still fixed to the ground.

“You have not only defended your Lord. You have saved the life of England’s Crown Prince, God’s chosen sovereign.” The Queen pauses, allowing her words to sink into the air, for them to take impact. “You may rise, good sir.”

Schofield gets to feet, finally lifting his head to meet the Queen’s gaze. His cheeks are slightly flushed, his eyes wide and searching as if he is still questioning this entire situation. As if he still does not believe it to be true.

“I doubt my son will want you straying far from his side, now that you have shown such bravery in defending his life.” The Queen laughs, a careless smile at her lips but not in her eyes. “Erinmore, take Sir William here to the knight’s quarters. Give him meat and wine. And from this point on, he is to be the prince’s personal protector. It seems there are enemies that would wish harm upon my son, and only the most devoted, the most courageous, is worthy of defending him.”

“This is a great honour you have bestowed upon me, Your Highness. Thank you.” Schofield replies, bowing his head before being led away by Erinmore. At the door he turns, his gaze meeting Thomas’ one last time, and then he is gone.

Thomas, who had been frozen to the spot all this time, goes to move, to leave this room, permeated as it is with the stench of blood and steel, but his mother reaches out and grabs his arm. Spinning him around to face her, the Queen looks feverishly up into Thomas’ face, her eyes hard and serious.

“Thomas. Look at me.” She hisses, and Thomas complies.

“Mother, I-“

“No. Listen to me. This was no one-off, Thomas, no isolated event. This man was sent to kill you. He would’ve succeeded unless-“ Her voice trails off with a pained whine.

“It doesn’t make any sense, mother. I am not even the heir.” Thomas stammers. His mind feels fuzzy, all his thoughts churning around in confused chaos.

“There are more complex forces at play here, my son. Just promise me you will be careful. Promise me you will _stay vigilant_.”

“Yes, yes…” Thomas mutters, turning to walk away, but his mother’s grip holds fast.

“Promise me, Thomas!” The Queen’s voice is high pitched, almost deranged.

Thomas pauses. The hall is dead silent, save for the monotonous swishing of servants mopping blood from the floor, the gentle whistling of wind through tiny gaps in the stone walls, and, is that bird song, cutting through the air like a sword through flesh? Thomas lets himself drift away on the tail of that bird song for a brief moment, imagines himself soaring away from this room that tastes like blood and steel on his tongue.

He meets his mother’s eyes.

“I promise.”

****************************************

That night, the wind howls through the castle like a kicked dog. The taste of spring that Thomas had believed promised to him gone just as suddenly as it had arrived. Lying in bed, he mourns its short life. _Beati mites, quoniam ipsi possidebunt terram._

But it is not the wind nor the cold that keeps Thomas from his slumber. Every time he lets his eyes fall shut, a face appears, trapped beneath his eyelids. It is a terrible, gaunt face, with sunken cheek bones and a treacherous smile. This time, when the man lifts his arm to strike, it succeeds in plunging the dagger deep into Thomas’ heart.

Fear sings Thomas to sleep; its lullaby a sheen of cold sweat, its kiss a promise of dangers just waiting over the horizon.


	2. The Dagger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tom is a bit of a brat in this chapter, but I suppose that’s what happens when you grow up a prince. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> Also, thank you SO much for all of your lovely comments, reading them made me super eager to finish this chapter and post it for you all to see! It's looking like this fic will be a bit longer than the 15,000 words I estimated, I'm just having too much fun writing. Might have to change the number of chapters, but we'll see.
> 
> Hope you enjoy this new instalment!

Thomas is woken at dawn by the rabid whistling of wind coming down the chimney. Upon opening his eyes and glancing around, he notices that, during the night, he has entirely entangled himself within his bed sheets. A restless sleep, then, permeated with haunting dreams and nightmares. And as he lies there, an image of a grimacing face floats through his mind.

Thomas shakes his head as though to dislodge the unpleasant vision, as if it were a physical blight upon his brain. In sleep, ghastly apparitions may creep in, uninvited, but when awake the conscious psyche is surely strong enough to banish such visitors?

Thomas refuses to become a victim of his own thoughts.

A servant comes in to draw the curtains and Thomas gloomily registers the overcast sky. An omen, perhaps, of misfortune to come? Thomas does not usually give much stead to matters of fate and premonition; but at that present moment, he finds it almost impossible to dislodge the sinister intuition that has settled into his heart like rot into damp wood.

Thomas sighs and runs a hand through his tangled hair. It has grown long in these months since his arrival at Windsor, almost brushing his jaw line now. It is not in keeping with the fashions to have it be so unkempt, but, then again, Thomas will never have coins minted or royal portraits painted in his honour. He will never have to conform to the visibility that comes with being King, so what does it matter?

Even so, Thomas dresses in a cotehardie of Ottoman silk damask that morning, knowing that, though he cannot fix his interior feelings, he may still bedeck his outsides with attractive embellishments.

When Thomas leaves his bedchambers, the knight from yesterday, Schofield, is stood just to the right of the door. Thomas’ stomach gives a little lurch at his presence, another painful reminder of the events of the day before. But at least it appears that Schofield has received some sort of scrub down, his person no longer drenched in blood. He gives a little start when he spots Thomas, trailing behind him once he begins to walk. Schofield says nothing, and so Thomas pays him no mind, nothing to suggest his presence except a faint clanking of armour and a soft footfall against stone.

Throughout breakfast, Schofield stays close, his eyes never leaving Thomas’ seated form. The attention leaves Thomas feeling prickly and uncomfortable, his cheeks flushed. But he says nothing, not wanting to offend the very man who had saved his life, and when he leaves the hall and begins to walk in the direction of the chapel, he tries to forget Schofield’s presence altogether.

It is only when Thomas reaches the chapel that he turns around to address the knight.

“You cannot come in here. I take mass alone.” Thomas tells Schofield, to which he nods and takes a step back.

“I will wait outside.”

Thomas barely prevents an eye roll as he turns away and enters the chapel. He takes his seat at the front and tries not to fidget, pondering if the hard, wooden benches will ever become less uncomfortable. It has been two months and Thomas still seems to leave every mass with a bruised behind.

As the chaplain drones on in Latin, Thomas’ thoughts turn to Schofield. He wonders if this is what the future holds for him: a constant tailing by a solemn, silent knight. The image is not a welcome one.

When Thomas leaves the chapel, he is surprised to see Erinmore waiting outside.

“My Lord, a word if possible?” Erinmore asks. Thomas gives a nod of approval and they begin to walk, slowly, in the direction of the cloisters. Schofield follows behind them without comment, although he is mindful enough to keep his distance. 

“Take a look at this.” Erinmore states, pulling a glinting object from a leather pouch tied around his waist and holding it aloft. Looking down, Thomas sees that it is a small dagger, the very dagger, in fact, that would have taken his life had it not been for the man stalking quietly behind them. With his heart beating very fast, Thomas reaches out and takes it from Erinmore, the cold bite of the blade sending a chill down his spine.

“Do you recognize the crest, on the hilt?” Erinmore continues.

Thomas brings the dagger closer to his face. Along the handle, a complex design has been expertly carved.

“The fleur de lis.” Thomas murmurs, running his finger over the stylised lily flower recurrent throughout the entire design. He looks to Erinmore again, a question in his eyes. “French, then?”

“It would appear so,” Erinmore replies grimly.

“Only appearing so?” Thomas queries, and Erinmore pauses, appearing to be preparing his next words very carefully in his head.

“There are many in this kingdom that wish to incite war with France, and an assassination attempt is certainly grounds for such an event, but…” Erinmore trails off, a sheepish look overtaking his features.

“But?” Thomas prompts.

“Well… if you desired to start a war and believed that killing a member of the royal family to be the correct way to do so, who would you favour for such a fate? The King? His heir? Both probable. And yet it was _you _who was targeted, my Lord. It is… strange, I think you will agree?”

Thomas does not answer. He glances back down at the dagger in his hand. Funny, how such a small, delicate object could have been the very thing that sent him to his death. It just seems so harmless, now that Thomas holds it in his own hand, now that he has dominion over it.

“In any case,” Erinmore goes on, “Our would-be-killer has been identified as Robert Neville; he was a cupbearer but had only been employed at the castle for a week or so. It is worrying, to say the least, that a man from our own midst was the undertaker of such a heinous crime. I know I speak for myself and the Queen when I express relief that you have acquired a… personal guard of sorts.” Erinmore gives a loose wave in the direction of Schofield at this.

“And what of his wound?” Thomas asks, which Erinmore counters with a look of puzzlement.

“My Lord?”

“This man, Neville, he was injured when he entered the hall. What of it?”

“Ah, yes. Well, it seems that his performance was farcical in nature. There was no wound, at least not until our good Sir William here had his way.” Erinmore gives a humourless chuckle.

“The blood…” Thomas mutters, frowning.

“Drained from a lamb, my Lord. The butchers had been busy at work with the newest shipment of livestock just the day before. As a cupbearer, Neville would have had privileged access to the kitchens, and, perhaps having heard tales of your unparalleled altruism in the face of another’s suffering, decided to use it to his own advantage.” Erinmore finishes his discourse with the sycophantic tone of voice he only ever reserves for Thomas, who likes to think that he does not let such blatant obsequiousness go to his head.

“Thank you, Erinmore, that will be all.” Thomas replies in a curt tone, and the steward gives a nod of farewell and then departs in the direction whence they had come.

With the sound of Erinmore’s footsteps fading steadily away behind him, and the passage clear ahead, Thomas allows himself a moment’s respite, a brief second in which he lets his guards fall and his face register the true horror of the past twelve hours. Reaching a hand out to clasp the cool stone of the arched windows positioned all the way around the cloisters, he lets his body go limp. Why is he being so weak? Kings are supposed to be strong, they do not falter at the slightest threat, and yet Thomas feels as though he might drown in the wave of fear that crashes over him.

When his eyes threaten to send shameful tears crawling down his cheeks, Thomas forcefully ends his moment of reprieve. He takes three calming breaths: _one… two… three…_

“Are you coming, then?” Thomas calls behind to Schofield, after schooling his face into its customary careless countenance.

Schofield quickens his pace to catch up and Thomas sets off down the passage, leading the way back to his chambers. At the door he stops short, causing Schofield to crash into him, whose hand shoots out suddenly to steady himself against Thomas’ shoulder. Thomas gives a scoff of exasperation as he entangles himself, and Schofield hastily removes his hand, their chests just barely brushing as they right themselves. To his utmost embarrassment, Thomas feels his cheeks heating up in response to their close proximity. Not even his mother ever comes this close, for goodness sakes.

“Right. Well, I have papers to attend to. You can… uh, wait out here.” Thomas says in what he hopes is a matter-of-fact tone of voice.

“I think it would be best if I came in with you, my Lord,” Schofield replies in his maddeningly calm way of speaking. Thomas goes to protest, but then his eyes meet Schofield’s, and, for some reason, the words get lost. With a jolt in the pit of his stomach, Thomas realises that this is first time he has looked into the knight’s face, properly looked, since their prolonged staring match the day before.

And Thomas cannot look away.

Time stretches, a fragile thread of a moment connecting two sets of eyes, blue into blue, a battle of wills. And then it breaks, and Thomas lowers his gaze, knowing that he has lost.

“As you wish, I do not care.”

But as Thomas sits at his writing desk, reading documents, drafting letters, he can’t help feeling uncomfortable at Schofield’s silent presence. And on the third instance of Thomas turning his head to see Schofield, without fail, watching him with that maddeningly tranquil disposition of his, he finally snaps.

“Do you not think you are taking this a little seriously, Sir William? Trailing behind me wherever I go, the constant staring. It is… unnerving.” Thomas barks out.

“I have been assigned as your protection, my Lord. I must be thorough in case another attempt on your life should occur,” Schofield responds calmly, though a small frown appears between his eyebrows.

“And are you planning on crawling into bed with me tonight, too? Just in case an assassin is hiding between the sheets?” Thomas says in a voice dripping with sarcasm.

At this, Schofield’s cheeks turn a furious shade of pink and he opens his mouth as if to speak, before seemingly deciding against it. Swivelling on his heel he begins to march away, out of the room, but then he stills. Turning and making his way towards Thomas again, the expression on his face can only be described as ferocious.

“What now?” Thomas sighs, wearily.

“Would you have preferred it if I had let you die?” Schofield snaps, his voice burning with intensity.

Thomas is stunned into silence and so Schofield continues, his arms waving around emphatically with every livid syllable.

“You seem to have forgotten, my Lord, in the short time that has elapsed between yesterday and today, that _I_ _saved your life_. That man would have killed you, in cold blood, and he was your cupbearer. An inhabitant of this very castle.” Schofield takes another step towards Thomas. He is standing very close now, and Thomas has to crane his neck to see his face.

“Do you know what I remember most? I plunged my sword so deep into that man’s back that I could feel his spine crack, but do you know what haunted my dreams last night? Your face, my Lord. You were so scared. I saw the fear in your eyes. And I recognised it because I felt my own blood freeze with terror at the sight, and I was not even on the receiving end. Yesterday you were scared, but today you pretend that all is well? How can you be so naïve? Do you really believe that I would be taking every precaution if I did not deem it absolutely necessary? Is it not obvious that enemies reside within these very walls? They believe you to be nothing but a gullible child, and they will use your own blind trust against you. Do not give them the chance!” There is a savage look to Schofield’s eye as he finishes his speech, panting slightly. But he seems to recognise his impertinence as soon as the room falls silent, shame suddenly clouding over his features.

Thomas does not speak, continuing to stare up at Schofield with a look of utter astonishment. Schofield takes a deep breath, glancing down at his feet as if calming himself.

“I can see you are busy, my Lord. I will give you some peace and keep watch outside.” Schofield says evenly, before turning and making his way out of Thomas’ chambers once again.

Upon Schofield’s exit, Thomas turns back to face his desk, his mind churning. So, the knight believes him to be naïve? Gullible? Blindly trusting? Thomas tries to find the effort to be angry, but it evades him. For once in his life, he has been told how it really is: no ingratiating flannel nor kind lies, just the truth. Can he really begrudge a man for that?

Thomas lets out a shaky breath and resolves to avoid dwelling on the matter. He is too busy to allow an impudent knight to cloud his thoughts. And so, taking his quill, he jots a letter to his father, a welcome distraction from the unwelcome commotion of that morning.

_Thomas, by the grace of God, the Lord of Windsor, grants to his well-beloved father, King of England, health, sincere affection and the ready will to do as you so please. _

_Being only three days since our last correspondence, you must suspect that this letter arrives with news of the most urgent kind. Father, a plot has befallen Windsor. It did occur yesterday that a man entered into the hall during the holding of court and, with taxing effort and the cunningness of the devil himself, attempted to halt the life of yours truly, by the use of a dagger. My life was saved, my breath remains within my chest whilst this snake of a man has taken his last, and yet I suspect this business will prove more troubling yet. I must divulge that my assassin was a resident of Windsor, my own cupbearer, in fact. So often do we hear tales of Lords and Kings slaughtered by the sly men that held their cups, who, in secret, added poison to their wine and watched as they drank it. I think you will concur that it is most rare for such a man, who possesses such ready access to my drinking vessel, to brandish a blade and strike in a room so full of his target’s allies? As such, the snake was disposed of by the honourable Sir William Schofield, Knight of Windsor, who I keep near my person at all times from this day forth. Though enemies conspire from all sides, God shall forever intervene. _

_I put down these thoughts for the purpose of organising my own mind as much as I do to give you knowledge of the treacherous act. At present, I find myself unable to make sense of the plot, but when more comes to light, as I am certain it will, you will be the first to hear, father. _

_Witness my hand, at the Castle of Windsor, on the third Monday of the month of March, in the twentieth year of your reign. I am your man and ever will be, by the grace of God, who keeps you forever in his thoughts. _

_Your son, Thomas._

****************************************

There is an almost imperceptible tension that Thomas can sense between himself and Schofield as he takes his supper that evening. The knight has said nothing further to him since his outburst, and yet his actions speak louder than words. Thomas had thought that the constant watching made him feel most uncomfortable, but now that Schofield refuses to even glance in his direction, let alone meet his eye, Thomas practically misses it. At least then Thomas had had something physical to resent, not this immaterial, unbearable feeling of apprehension.

Thomas eats in the hall, as always, though he wishes he could dine in the kitchen with the rest of the castle’s inhabitants, next to the great crackling fire in its stone hearth, preferably. The hall is the only appropriate room for the Lord to take his meals, but in the silent, echoing space Thomas is even more attuned to Schofield’s hushed presence and his resolute indifference to Thomas’ existence.

But, on the bright side, Thomas is able to use the knight’s purposeful disinterest to do some watching of his own. He takes in Schofield’s appearance properly for the first time since their meeting. He is thin and tall, taller than average judging by the sleeves of his doublet, which stop just a few inches short, revealing a sizeable expanse of his wrist. Thomas finds his gaze drawn to those two vulnerable patches of skin, so pale and translucent that the blue veins stand out, their exposure seeming almost indecent. Schofield’s face, though never veering from its grave, unsmiling countenance, is comely, and his eyes are a pale, lucid shade of cerulean. Thomas does not need an intimate viewpoint in order to visualise those eyes, remembering all to well the burning intensity they had held just hours before.

It is the image of Schofield’s eyes, blue and blazing, that Thomas drifts asleep to that night. Whilst a more welcome apparition than the face of his attacker, its proclivity in his thoughts leaves Thomas feeling shaky and confused. He senses something raw and tender blooming in his chest and he does not understand it. Does not know what to do with it. Does he cast it out or welcome it as a friend? As sleep consumes Thomas, he can’t help feeling that a gulf has been opened within him, deep and inexplicable, and it will not be closed again without a fight.

Thomas has never been much of a fighter.

*****************************************

“Do you own a horse?”

Schofield gives a jump of surprise, obviously having not sensed Thomas’ presence. He is stood outside Thomas’ bedchambers, but had not noticed his approach.

“A horse. Do you have one, Sir William?” Thomas repeats his question after Schofield fails to answer.

“Oh, well… yes, yes I do.” Schofield stammers, a blush rising in his cheeks. “He's in the stables.”

“Very good. I hope you’re a good rider, Sir William.” Thomas says with a grin, setting off down the corridor.

“For what purpose, my Lord?” Schofield replies, falling into step beside Thomas.

“We’re going hunting.”

In the three days that had elapsed since Schofield had lost his temper at Thomas, this brief interchange of words constituted the longest conversation the pair had engaged in. It seems that Schofield is much more stubborn than Thomas had anticipated as, despite many attempts on the latter’s behalf, Schofield had refused to even register his presence, save the occasional “No, my Lord,” or “Yes, my Lord,” whatsoever.

Partly because Thomas found it simply ridiculous that he knew so little of a man he spent nearly every waking hour of the day with, and partly because he simply enjoyed the activity, he had decided, the day before, to take Schofield out for a hunt.

Once they arrive at the stables, Thomas spots the marshal, Smith, leaning nonchalantly against a wall and talking quietly with a groom. When he notices Thomas, Smith dismisses the groom and makes his way over.

“You’re in luck, my Lord. Rowan here has just informed me that the huntsman was successful in his examination of the forest this morning. He found boar tracks, just north of Cookes Hill. Will you be requesting his aid, this afternoon?”

“No, that’s alright, Smith, we’ll just be taking the horses, today. And Myrtle too, if you please.” Thomas replies, and Smith nods before setting off backs towards the stables again.

“Who’s Myrtle?” Schofield queries, but before Thomas can answer, he is nearly knocked sideways by a large red greyhound that had seemingly appeared from thin air. Thomas gives a cry of delight and bends down to scratch behind the dog’s ears.

“_This_ is Myrtle. She’s not the most obedient of hounds, gets a bit too overexcited, you know? But I’m very fond of her, really. Do you like dogs?” Thomas glances up from his petting of Myrtle to see a funny look on Schofield’s face. He appears lost in thought, a slightly helpless expression spreading over his features.

“Sir William?” Thomas prompts, and the knight gives a little start, as if waking from a deep slumber.

“Sorry, my Lord. Dogs. Yes. I like them.” Schofield mumbles, sounding a little bemused.

“Well. That’s good, then.” Thomas replies, a smile of amusement dancing at the corners of his mouth.

Once seated upon their horses, Thomas’ a dappled grey mare and Schofield’s a chestnut stallion, they travel south along Three Castle Path for a quarter of an hour. Schofield, thankfully, proves himself to be a confident rider, and his face even loses some of its grave sincerity, being replaced by a look of carefree enjoyment.

They slow down to a steady trot once they reach the opening of the forest, the atmosphere suddenly becoming hushed and tranquil. In the mottled golden sunlight streaming through the trees, Schofield appears almost ethereal with his fair hair and quiet demeanour. Thomas feels emboldened to speak.

“Tell me about yourself, Sir William.”

“My Lord?” Schofield replies with an expression of puzzlement. 

“I just find it strange that we have been in each other’s company for nearly a week, and yet I know nothing about you. Where did you grow up, for example, where did you train to be a knight?”

There is a moment of silence, and then Schofield takes a breath and begins to speak.

“I grew up in Oxford, my Lord. My father was a knight, himself, and I saw little reason not to follow in his footsteps. He was a resident of Oxford Castle and that is where I trained, although it has little military use these days. That is what brought me to Windsor.”

“And your father? Is he still at Oxford?” Thomas asks.

“No, my Lord. He was killed in battle, fighting a rebellion in Dorset six months ago.” A dark cloud seems to have travelled over Schofield’s face, and Thomas mourns its light-hearted smile of a few minutes ago. He had not meant his attempt at conversation to lead to this.

“I am sorry for your loss, Sir William.” Thomas says earnestly, and Schofield gives a feeble nod of thanks.

A few minutes of silence goes by, punctuated only by the melodic thud of hooves on the forest floor and Myrtle’s rhythmic panting as she runs alongside the horses.

“You know,” Thomas begins, trying to lighten the mood, “I knew a man from Oxford, once. Bishop Wilkinson, I believe his name was.”

“Of Christ Church Cathedral?” Schofield replies, sounding slightly less dispirited than a moment ago.

“Yes! Did you know him?” Thomas says, excitedly.

“Indeed. He was… well, he was quite unusual, wasn’t he?”

“That’s a nice way of putting it.” Thomas retorts, and Schofield gives him a small grin.

“That mad old codger once told me that, to avoid falling ill, I should abstain from bathing altogether. He said that the hot water would open up my body to the plague and that I would surely perish if I refused to heed his warning. He even boasted to me about the fact that he’d only ever taken one bath in his whole bloody life. And he was hardly a spring chicken, was he?” Thomas chuckles.

“I am sure you are mistaken, my Lord. I always found him to smell exactly of roses.” Schofield says in a matter-of-fact tone, although his eyes betray his sarcasm.

Thomas is not sure whether it is surprise at the usually so-serious Schofield cracking a joke, or the statement itself, but he cannot help the bubble of laughter that rises to his lips. Schofield looks indignant at first, thinking that Thomas is laughing at _him_, but then he seems to recognise the heightened humour of the situation and joins in. Hearing Schofield laugh only makes Thomas’ delight grow, and he has to halt his horse lest he fall off from shaking with mirth.

“Stop it, stop it! We should not speak ill of the dead,” Schofield hisses at Thomas after a minute or so, but his shoulders quiver with the effort of holding in the hysterics, and he cannot hide the smile that has split his face in two.

“You’re right.” Thomas concedes with a sigh, but then he gives Schofield a devilish grin before continuing with a falsely innocent voice, “besides, I’m sure he smells a lot better now than he ever did when he was living.”

The two descend into childish giggles again, and it is some time before they are able to continue on into the depths of the forest.

They do not catch the boar, in the end, nor do they even glimpse a sight of it. After a couple of hours, when the sun has begun to fall low in the bruised sky, they admit defeat and turn back. But as they make their way along the path towards the castle, Thomas cannot help but feel triumphant. For the first time in days, there is a lightness in his heart, a spring to his step; all memories of a grimacing face with sunken cheeks and glinting teeth gone from his mind, having been replaced by flashes of eyes of deepest blue and the sweet, melodic sound of laughter.

Only a very small part of Thomas’ brain expresses uneasiness at this, a worry suddenly blossoming that this new, unexplained, fascination may prove to be more trouble than all the assassins in the entire kingdom of England put together. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MEDIEVAL NERD ALERT, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK:  
Fashion was a BIG thing in the Middle Ages, as it was the most concise way of showing the divisions of class (kinda like today I guess, but to an even greater extent). There were major rules as to what kind of fabrics and colours you could wear depending on who you were, with those at the top of the social hierarchy (i.e. royalty) favouring ermine fur and silk as well as other expensive materials. The most common fabric dye was made from woad, a flower that yielded a dark blue colour, so clothes of a bright red colour (the hardest dye to manufacture) would have been reserved for the most wealthy. The cotehardie (or kirtle) that Tom is wearing in this chapter is a kind of fitted long-sleeved coat/dress worn over the undergarments. Male cotehardies were usually much shorter than the female equivalent, and throughout this century in particular, the fashion was for shorter and shorter hem lengths. If you were super provocative you might wear a hip length cotehardie with nothing, not even a cloak, over top (scandal!) But, obviously, England is pretty cold, and even in summer the castles were still freezing and damp, so prancing around without a robe or cloak would have probably been frowned upon as frivolous and lacking in sense. 
> 
> Another thing, in relation to Thomas’ comment on the Bishop’s view of bathing: contrary to popular belief, frequent bathing was pretty common in the Middle Ages, especially for the wealthier classes who could afford wooden or metal bath tubs. It was only when the Black Death hit in the late 14th century that people began to believe that hot water and clean skin would leave you vulnerable to disease, and a distrust of washing continued until the 18th century, pretty much. A rich person from the Tudor period would have smelt a hundred times worse than a medieval peasant, trust me.
> 
> Ok, random discourse on medieval fashion and bathing practices over. Sorry.


	3. Unrest

“For a hunting dog, Myrtle seems to spend a disproportionate amount of time lying on her back getting her belly scratched, don’t you think?” Schofield chuckles, before reaching across to pet the animal in question’s smooth head.

“She is as cunning at bringing grown men to their knees as she is fat and lazy. And not even you can resist her charms, Sir William.” Thomas replies with a grin.

For a day in early April, the weather is surprisingly balmy, and thus the afternoon finds Thomas and Schofield sat on the grass in the castle’s walled garden, soaking in the strong, though inconsistent, sunlight. As if Myrtle had sniffed out their presence from all the way over in the stables, it had barely been five minutes of their outing before she had come bounding through an opening in a hedge, demanding affection. And, being the fools they were, Thomas and Schofield had been all too happy to oblige.

“And what if it’s all a ploy by the people who sent your assassin? Butter us up with pleasantries of a canine nature and then strike when we are at our most malleable?” Schofield jokes.

“Are you suggesting that sweet, innocent Myrtle here is a traitor to King and country?” Thomas says, bringing his hand to his mouth in a spectacle of pretend horror. Myrtle gives a contented bark of agreement and burrows her head into Schofield’s lap.

“Hmm… perhaps we should have her questioned, my Lord? Shall I have a cell made vacant in the Tower of London?”

“See, Sir William? You _are_ capable of humour!” Thomas says with a delighted laugh.

“When I wish to be, when the situation calls for it.” Schofield shrugs, but his cheeks are flushed, and he cannot help the smile that breaks through its façade.

Thomas sighs, and lies back on the grass, lifting an arm to shield his eyes from the sun.

“At this rate, I almost wish that something _would _happen, you know? It would beat this constant waiting, this constant worrying.” Thomas ponders aloud, and then shakes his head and grimaces. “Ugh, I feel completely foolish saying that.”

“I don’t think you are foolish, my Lord. On the day of a battle, it was always the hours before dawn that I dreaded the most, rather than the heat of the fight. Just sitting there, knowing that it might be the last peaceful moment of your life.” Schofield replies quietly, his voice solemn once again.

“And what of eternal life, Sir William? If there is anyone who deserves a spot alongside the angels in the Heavenly New Jerusalem, it is you. Never have I met a man more chivalrous or abundant in pious religiosity.” Thomas says, turning his head to smile at Schofield, but the knight avoids his gaze, a dark look suddenly clouding his features.

“There is much you do not know about me.” Schofield mutters in a bitter tone, more to himself than to Thomas. Thomas opens his mouth to question the statement, but upon seeing Schofield’s morose expression, he decides against it.

The two descend into an awkward silence, which is apparently sensed by Myrtle as she begins to whine and nuzzle at Schofield’s fingers. Thomas turns his gaze upwards and watches absent-minded clouds drifting across the sky; never static, always moving, but not knowing in what direction they go in. Thomas identifies with those clouds. For many weeks now, ever since the attempt on his life, he has sensed himself hurtling towards a destination that, though shrouded in mystery, holds within its clasp an epiphany of sorts. There is something waiting for him over the horizon, he just knows it. If only he could _just_ catch a glimpse.

“Do you believe in fate?” Thomas asks, his eyes still fixed to the heavens.

“Hmm?” Schofield replies distractedly.

“I don’t know. I just feel as if there’s something… waiting for me, as if I can sense my own destiny being written, or something. Do you think we have any control over our future?” Thomas turns his head towards Schofield, who is staring into the middle distance with a frown. There is a moment’s pause before he speaks.

“I think it is pessimistic to assume we have no control, my Lord. Our mind may desire one thing, but we can always push it down, repress it if need be. Humankind is inherently sinful, after all, and it is only with time and effort that one may learn to ignore temptation. That _is_ what God’s love is for, to direct us away from our most base desires.” Schofield rattles off his speech with the air of someone who has said the words often enough that he almost believes them.

“Oh.” Thomas replies, not knowing what else to say. He had not been expecting Schofield to answer like that, apparently interpreting Thomas’ question as referring to the Christian implications of free-will and determinism, rather than an off-hand comment upon the state of his own pre-ordained path.

They fall silent again. Thomas keeps his gaze trained on Schofield, a little habit he has picked up throughout their time spent together.

Schofield is fiddling with something in his breast pocket, deep in thought. Thomas knows what the object is, has witnessed Schofield take it out and run his fingers over it numerous times in his moments of guilty voyeurism. And, as Thomas had expected, Schofield is soon enough pulling the small, leather-bound book from the inside of his doublet. He does not open the psalter, he never does, but instead runs his palms absent-mindedly over the crudely embellished covers. Thomas props himself up on his elbows, and watches Schofield for a minute or so, his eyes almost mesmerised by the slow, methodical action of pale hands against dark, worn leather.

“Why do you do that?” Thomas asks after a moment, and Schofield is startled from his reverie, blinking his eyes in surprise.

“Do what, my Lord?” Schofield replies.

“That psalter, the one you keep in your pocket. You’re always just… holding it. Why?”

Schofield looks down at his hands in surprise, as if he hadn’t even realised that they held the book in question.

“Oh.” Schofield says softly, a frown crossing his brow. “It was my mother’s.”

Thomas does not reply immediately. He can infer from Schofield’s tone alone that the book is an object of much significance to him. He remembers how, after the death of his younger sister, Jane, three years prior, he had carried a small square of her swaddling cloth around with him, wherever he went. He knows that his mother still keeps a lock of her hair, held together by a simple lace ribbon, in her own Book of Hours. It is not unusual for a person to accumulate these objects, relics of lives lost but not forgotten, and yet Schofield’s furtive expression and defensive cradling of the book suggests a deeper significance.

“Do you ever read it?” Thomas asks, his voice gentle.

“Not really, no. It’s too…” Schofield trails off, a distant look in his eye, but Thomas understands what he means. It is good to remember, but there are ways to do it that bring comfort, and ways that bring nothing but pain. After six months of carrying that insubstantial piece of cloth around in his pocket, it had grown heavy and burdensome, slowly metamorphizing from a loving reminder of Jane’s life, to a souvenir of her death.

Sometimes it is easier to forget. 

“But you can read, though?” Thomas asks, and Schofield gives a nod in response. “Well, that is impressive.” Thomas smiles, only realising after how patronising his words are. But if Schofield minds, he does not show it.

“Hardly. I am a knight, after all.”

“You would be surprised by the sheer number of complete idiots I’ve met who are allowed to call themselves ‘Sir’. The fact that you can string a sentence together, let alone read one printed on a page, places you yards above most of the knights I have made acquaintance with.” Thomas chuckles, and, just like that, the tension is broken. Schofield gives a nod of acknowledgement and his mouth twitches at the corners. Not quite a smile, but near enough that Thomas feels his nerves settle.

“What do you like to read then, Sir William? Courtly love? Fool’s literature? What about _The Canterbury Tales?_” Thomas asks, and Schofield barks out a laugh in response.

“If Smith found out I had a copy of _The Canterbury Tales_, I think he’d have me hung, drawn and quartered.”

“Why ever should he do that? It is a most worthy read!” Thomas replies innocently.

“You know perfectly well why, my Lord.” Schofield shakes his head, grinning. “And I must say, it _is_ rather fitting that you of all people would hold a predilection for such licentious literature.”

“Ah, well that sounds like something a person denied of the true genius of Chaucer would say. What a tragedy! If only you had someone willing to give you a taste of said genius…” Thomas says with a wry smile.

“Oh no.” Schofield mutters, but Thomas has already jumped to his feet, assuming the position of a player about to perform his monologue. In response, Schofield rolls his eyes, and tries to appear both deeply unamused and highly exasperated but fails on all accounts.

“Thus Absalon went down upon his knees;

‘I am a Lord!’ he thought, ‘And by degrees

There may be more to come; the plot may thicken.’

‘Mercy, my love!’ he said, ‘Your mouth, my chicken!’

She flung the window open then in haste

And said, ‘Have done, come on, no time to waste,

The neighbours here are always on the spy.’

Absalon started wiping his mouth dry

Dark was the night as pitch, as black as coal,

And at the window out she put her hole,

And Absalon, so fortune framed the farce,

Put up his mouth and kissed her naked arse

Most savourously before he knew of this.

And back he started. Something was amiss;

He knew quite well a woman has no beard,

Yet something rough and hairy had appeared.” Thomas finishes his performance and gives an exaggerated bow of thanks.

“So beautiful, so beautiful!” Schofield cries, miming the wiping of a tear from his eye and then breaking out in an emphatic round of applause.

Thomas tumbles to the ground, laughing, all memory of the awkward tension that had occurred a few minutes prior completely forgotten. His head feels pleasantly light and fuzzy and he can’t stop smiling; without even realising it, making Schofield laugh had become his most favoured pastime.

The happy moment is broken by the sudden, and unwelcome, arrival of his mother through the garden gate.

“Thomas! What on earth are you doing?” The Queen cries, crossing the grass towards them in three long strides. Upon seeing her advance, Schofield jumps to his feet, looking guilty. Thomas stays in his position seated upon the grass and rolls his eyes.

“What does it look like, mother? I hadn’t realised that it was a crime to be outside on a pleasant day.” Thomas sighs.

“You look like children, the both of you. If I did not know better, I would assume you were two stable boys bunking off of their duties, not the Prince of England and the supposedly noble knight assigned to protect him. Did you forget that your life is in danger, Thomas?” The Queen keeps her voice level and calm, but her eyes flash with anger.

“Mother, I-“ Thomas starts, after clambering to his feet, but the Queen cuts him off.

“No. Get back to your duties, Lord knows you have enough of them to be getting along with.” She begins to walk away.

“I am the Lord of this castle, mother. You _will_ treat me with respect.” Thomas shouts after her, his hands clenched in fists of rage.

The Queen stills, slowly turning to face Thomas again.

“I will treat you with respect once you have earned it, Thomas. At present, the only creature you could demand respect from is that sorry mongrel at your feet.” Thomas glances down at Myrtle, who whines in response and starts nosing at his calves, looking for attention. His mother smiles condescendingly at this. “And look, even she disobeys you.”

Thomas tries to find the words to reply, searching for some furious, biting comment to throw back in his mother’s face, but he cannot. She gives a nod of farewell to Schofield, who bows his head solemnly in reply, and a pointed look in Thomas’ direction, and then she departs.

As the Queen walks away, Thomas feels his anger slowly dissipating, to be replaced with burning embarrassment and then finally guilt. His mother has always been tough on him, but certainly for good reason, she only wants what is best for him, does she not? His harsh and insolent words come back to him then, and he shakes his head in shame. A son should never speak in anger towards his mother, the woman who brought him into the world, even if his position outstrips hers.

Thomas has a temper, but it never lasts long, and more often than not, he regrets the hurt he causes those that bear the brunt of it. Even so, it is with a sullen disposition that he orders Schofield to follow him back into the castle and keep watch outside his chambers as he attends to the official documents awaiting him on his desk.

They do not speak for the rest of the afternoon.

****************************************

Two days later, Thomas receives the first report upon the assassination attempt since his brief discussion with Erinmore outside the chapel.

The Lord High Steward had arranged a meeting between himself, Thomas and the Queen to discuss “urgent matters”, as he had phrased it, but they had been sitting in Thomas’ chambers for at least an hour and Robert Neville had not been mentioned once. Rather, Erinmore had filled the time by meticulously going through a document listing the exact division of funds fed into the castle by the tax-paying landowners, knights and villeins living in its immediate vicinity. And when, at the end of this riveting conversation, he suggests they turn to calculating the cost of each and every animal owned by the people under the castle’s stewardship and add that to the funds list, Thomas decides to put his foot down.

“I don’t mean to trivialise matters of obvious importance, Erinmore, but I was under the impression that you had news of the assassin.” Thomas interrupts the Steward, who gives a jump of surprise, as if he hadn’t even been aware of Thomas’ presence beside him.

“Yes, yes, of course, my Lord. My apologies.” Erinmore mumbles, then begins searching through the sea of papers before him. “The assassin. Yes.”

Thomas sags back into his chair, rolling his eyes. His mother shoots him a stern looks across the table and he sighs, schooling his face into a mask of cool indifference.

“The thing is, my Lord, we have received a most disturbing report upon the location of Robert Neville’s prior employment.” Erinmore continues in a grave voice, after a moment.

“Why, where was he stationed?” Thomas asks, his interest piquing and his pulse beginning to race.

“The Palace of Westminster, my Lord.”

“What?!” Thomas splutters, and Erinmore nods grimly in response.

“But that just adds to the puzzlement of the situation! If this man had access to both the King of England and his heir why on earth would he go to the trouble of targeting Thomas?” The Queen sounds horrified, mirroring the condition of Thomas’ inner dialogue.

“Yes, indeed.” Erinmore concedes.

“Is there anything else we should know?” Thomas enquires, impressed at the constancy of his voice despite his fraught mental state.

“Unfortunately, not, my Lord. That is all I was able to garner.”

“In two weeks? That is all you have?” Thomas snaps.

“What you must understand, my Lord, is that-“

Erinmore breaks off abruptly as the door is swung open and the Marshal comes rushing into the room, Schofield at his tail.

“Smith? What is the meaning of this?’” Erinmore expostulates angrily, rising to his feet.

“I am sorry for my interruption, my Lord, please trust that I would not be so rude were it not for this most pressing of matters.” Smith splutters out after bowing hastily to Thomas and his mother.

“It is forgiven, Smith,” Thomas replies with a wave of his hand, “but please, pray tell what is irking you.” Getting to his feet, Thomas joins Erinmore where he stands.

“There is unrest in the county, my Lord.”

“Unrest? What has happened?” Thomas exclaims, impatiently.

“In the early hours of this morning a landowner by the name of Cecil was ambushed in his home a mile from here by a mob of angry serfs. There have been grievances for months between the two parties due to complaints of poor working conditions, but we never imagined it would lead to this…”

“Lead to what, Smith? For goodness sakes, man, just spit it out!” Erinmore barks, his face turning purple.

“They beheaded him, my Lord. And then they entered his property and sacked it, before moving onwards to target nearby residences. The mob is small but growing by the minute: if we don’t contain it now there will be all-out-anarchy in the county, and it will likely spread to the castle.”

“Tell me what you need.”

“We must send in the militia, my Lord, before this gets too large to control. A series of envoys have already been dispatched to every knight not already resident at Windsor, and I can get a force together within the next ten minutes. With your sanction, of course.”

“Yes. Very good.”

“Thank you.” Smith nods at Thomas and then turns to Schofield. “Go collect your helmet and your horse, Sir William. Quickly, go!” Schofield turns and makes a start towards the door, but Thomas puts a hand out to stop him.

“Wait, Sir William is going too?” Thomas asks tentatively. Schofield raises his head and their eyes meet across the room.

“But, of course. It is his duty, the very point of his employment here. To defend the county from those who wish to wreak havoc within it.” Smith replies, looking confused.

“Oh. Yes, I suppose that makes sense.” Thomas concedes, but still no one moves.

“My Lord, if you are worried about your safety without Sir William here to-“ Smith begins but Thomas interrupts him.

“No! That is _not_ what concerns me, Smith, not at all.” Thomas exclaims hastily. He pauses for a moment, his mind whirring. “It is just… perhaps I should join this party as well? Is it really fair for these men to lay down their life to protect mine whilst I sit idly by and watch?”

“That is noble, my Lord, but this is what we prepare for, this is our very purpose. Our chivalric code states that we must recompense the Lord who pays our livelihood with military service. Surely you know this?” Smith responds.

“Yes of course I know that. But, still…”

“Stop it! You are being ridiculous, Thomas.” The Queen scoffs.

“How so, mother? A Lord has a duty to his ward, after all. I think that I should ride out with you, Smith. I need to make sure that nothing happens to… I need to make sure that nothing bad happens.” Thomas begins to make his way across the room. “I will don my armour and be ready within-“

“No!” Schofield shouts out suddenly, interrupting Thomas and startling everyone in the room, who all turn to look at him. Realising the extent to his outburst, Schofield gives a cough of embarrassment. “Forgive me, my Lord, but if those rebels have grievances against the landowners, how do you expect they will react to your presence? As your protector it is my duty to keep you alive, and surely this goes against everything the good Queen here intended in appointing me as such? I cannot dictate your actions, and it is outrageous for me to even question your judgement, but, just, _please_… don’t do this.” Schofield is looking at Thomas very intensely, and he feels a heat rising in his cheeks at the attention.

There is a moment’s silence, a tension-charged minute. And then the Queen sighs.

“The knight is right. Don’t be a fool, Thomas.”

Thomas wants to argue, the contentions of those in the room against his joining the furore only adding to his eagerness rather than diminishing it. But the desperation in Schofield’s eyes gives him pause. He closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath.

“Fine. I suppose you all make valid points. I will stay put.” With Thomas’ words, Schofield seems to breathe a sigh of relief, his chest deflating with it.

“Very good. But we must not waste anymore time. Let’s move, Sir William.” Smith orders, and Schofield jumps into action.

“Be safe.” Thomas whispers, his voice almost inaudible, but Schofield appears to hear it. He turns around at the door and gives Thomas a reassuring smile and a nod. And then he is gone.

****************************************

“How long has it been, Erinmore?”

“Two hours, my Lord.” The Lord High Steward replies, curtly. It is the sixth time Thomas has asked him since the group of knights departed from the castle.

“That is quite some time, wouldn’t you say? Do you think we should be worrying? Perhaps we should send someone out to gather updates.” Thomas can tell he is rambling but finds it impossible to stop.

“News will come when there is news, my Lord. Do not worry yourself, the rebels will never breach the castle defences. You are quite safe.” Erinmore gives Thomas a reassuring smile and then excuses himself, making his way out of the great hall.

Thomas wants to call after him that he could not be less troubled by the issue of his own safety, that he would much rather be fighting alongside his militia rather than cooped up within the castle waiting for news, but he does not. He does not divulge to anyone the extent of his concern at the situation. And, in truth, Thomas feels almost embarrassed by his levels of anxiety at the thought of all those men fighting to protect his county from unrest. Why should he get to descend into this pathetic mess of a man when there were real men out there, fighting for him?

Except that is not the whole truth.

Of course, Thomas is praying for the wellbeing of _all _of the knights under Smith’s command, and especially the marshal himself, but if he is being properly, truly, completely truthful, there is just one man that Thomas’ heart beats restlessly for…

But surely it is only natural that Thomas should want Sir William to return safe and unscathed? They have become close over the past weeks, he would call them friends even. No man wants his friends to get hurt, that is a simple fact.

And yet, there is nothing simple about the fear that paralyses Thomas every time he even thinks of Schofield, let alone wonders how he is faring. It reminds Thomas of the fear he himself had felt as he had been staring into the eyes of his assassin, staring into the eyes of death. Why does Schofield’s wellbeing now feel paramount to his own? As though they are connected, in body and spirit and mind; as though if Schofield were to die, Thomas would die also.

Every time anyone comes bustling into the hall, Thomas’ heart lurches anxiously, and every time he looks up to see that it is not Schofield, returning from the fight with his hair tousled and eyes bright, his heart drops again to the pit of his stomach.

Thomas slumps into the nearest chair and puts his head into his hands. His mother, who is hurrying past, presses her hand onto his shoulder in a comforting, but fleeting, gesture.

Thomas does not know how long he stays there, in that position. People past by him, and he is vaguely aware of the sky outside turning from a pale blue to a dusky lilac to the darkest indigo, but time seems to pass by without comment. It is only when a servant calls out to the room that he sees a large group on horseback making their way back up the hill towards the castle that Thomas lifts his head.

“The rebels?” The Queen asks fearfully, but the servant shakes his head.

Thomas is on his feet and marching out of the hall towards the Norman Gateway before the servant even has a chance to reply. Within minutes, men begin to filter into the castle, looking bruised and bloody but, thankfully, triumphant.

But though Thomas cranes his neck, he does not see Schofield within the group. Spotting Smith, he makes a beeline towards him.

“Smith! What happened?”

The marshal spins around to face Thomas. He has a gash on his face and his eyes look a little unfocused, blurred by the fervour of battle.

“Well, there were more of them than we anticipated.” He mumbles, and Thomas reaches out to shake him by the shoulders.

“What does that mean? Please, Smith, just tell me.”

“They fought back harder than expected, and with their great number they gave quite the resistance, but thankfully we were able to disperse the unrest and capture the ringleaders. A roaring success, I’d say.” Smith announces to the room, appearing to come back to himself with every word spoken.

“Any casualties?” Thomas asks, holding his breath.

“No casualties, I’m glad to say. But…” Smith trails off, looking as if he is trying to find the right words.

“What is it? What happened?”

“One of our number was injured, my Lord”

“Who?” Thomas feels his heart in his throat, his breath freezing in his chest. _Please, God, don’t let it be him. Please, just anyone but him. _

“Sir William. He was ambushed by a rebel as the battle was ending, stabbed him in the gut, the wretched cur did. They had already surrendered, it was an act of the utmost cowardice.”

Thomas’ heart drops. He lets out a shaky breath.

“Where is he?”

“With the doctor, my Lord, we had him taken straight to the infirmary. Wait!” Smith calls after him, but Thomas has already set off in a run down the passage.

Thomas explodes into the infirmary, a small chamber situated at the base of the east tower, and looks around frantically. The room is dimly lit with ruddy firelight from the hearth and it takes a second for his eyes to adjust, but he soon spots a figure stretched out on a cot. The figure gives a moan of pain and Thomas rushes forwards, dropping to his knees beside the cot. The man turns his head, revealing the pale face of Sir William, twisted into a grimace. He manages to smile weakly when he sees Thomas, however, his eyes losing some of their dullness.

“William.” Thomas breathes, reaching down to take one of Schofield’s hands in his own.

“He’ll be fine.” A voice behind him announces matter-of-factly, and Thomas turns around to see the doctor.

“Are you sure?” Thomas replies, his voice shaky.

“The dagger missed his vital organs, an inch to either side and he would be consorting with angels right now, so God must have blessed him. He has lost a lot of blood, but the most pressing matter is the question of infection. I have applied hypericum to the wound, and he looks to have a good balance to his humours. With more of that God-given luck, he’ll pull through.”

Thomas lets out a breath he did not realise he had been holding.

“Thank you.” He whispers to the doctor and then turns back to Schofield.

“Were you worrying about me?” Schofield croaks out, grinning at Thomas’ fraught expression.

“It’s not funny, William. I don’t know what I would do if I lost you.” Thomas hisses, and Schofield stops grinning.

“Because then you would have no one to protect you?” Schofield asks, a frown forming on his sweaty brow. Thomas does not answer, does not know how to answer, and the moment stretches on.

“No, that’s not why.” Thomas replies simply, and Schofield does not ask him to clarify.

They both fall silent and still. After a while, Thomas’ legs begin to ache from his cramped position on the floor, but he does not move. He does not remove his hand from Schofield’s either, nor his gaze from his face. He supposes they must look a strange, even alarming, sight: The Lord of the castle on his knees at the bedside of a lowly knight, the two men just staring into the eyes of the other and saying nothing. But Thomas cannot bring himself to care, and, anyway, no one enters the infirmary in the minutes or hours they spend in that position.

“Hey...” Schofield whispers gently after a while, lifting a hand with some effort to touch Thomas’ cheek. With a jolt of embarrassment, Thomas realises that he is crying, but he allows William wipe away the tears from his skin with the backs of his fingers. His cool touch is a sweet relief to the feverishly hot flesh of Thomas’ face, and his breath hitches slightly in his throat, an illicit moan hovering just under the surface.

How did they end up here? Thomas is so aware of what the situation holds within its clutches, a sweet, sickly secret threatening to break through, but he refuses to acknowledge its wrongness. _Please, God, just let me have this one, perfect moment, and I’ll never think about it again until the day I die. _

“My Lord, I-“ Schofield begins tentatively, his face turned drawn into a miserable frown.

“You don’t have to call me that, William. I don’t wish for you to call me by that title anymore.” Thomas interrupts him, and Schofield looks puzzled.

“My Lord?”

Thomas smiles sadly and brings the hand that holds Schofield’s so tightly within its clasp up to rest over the knight’s heart.

“No. Call me Thomas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psalter: an illuminated prayer book for personal use  
Villein: a kind of peasant or serf (except not enslaved) paying tax to the Lord of the land they live on.
> 
> Also, my mentioning of The Canterbury Tales in this is a bit of a cheat as, though it was written by Chaucer in the 14th century, it was not published until 1476. However, I couldn’t resist the reference as the title of this fic is actually taken from the work’s prologue, and it has generally just been a super useful reference for me. Thomas performs a bit from ‘The Miller’s Tale’, which is the most explicit of all of Chaucer’s tales (I figured Thomas would be the sort of person to memorise the dirtiest parts to shock his unsuspecting victims with). If anyone else is interested in gaining a better understanding of everyday life in medieval England, I would absolutely recommend it (but it’s probably best to get a translation as it was written in Middle English, which is pretty difficult to understand, even though it sounds nice). 
> 
> Medieval medicine was kind of a fuckery. They believed that a person’s health was dictated by their four humours (black bile, phlegm, blood and yellow bile), which were also connected to different elements and different seasons of the year. An imbalance of humours was what made you unwell. Also, the doctor applies hypericum, a kind of flower, to Will’s wound because its leaves had little holes that looked like pores and it was believed that God gave specific herbs signatures to treat specific ailments (e.g. skullcap seeds used to treat headaches because they look like skulls). I don’t know if doctors actually applied hypericum to wounds, I just wanted to have a little fun with the doctrine of signatures.
> 
> P.S. I’m sorry that these end notes have become a place for me to geek out about all things Medieval, but I just get a bit over-excited! Feel free to ignore these lil’ nerdy discourses if you aren’t interested  
> 
> P.P.S. The song I’ve been listening to on repeat for a week straight whilst writing this has been ‘Two Men in Love’ by The Irrepressibles and it just fits so perfectly with this fic I highly recommend it (especially if you wanna get fucked up by feelings). This has been a public service announcement. Cheers.


	4. Burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, ok so the world has literally gone crazy since I last updated. I’m not gonna lie, I’m currently self-isolating, feeling like death with an illness that may or may not be caused by a certain corona boi… AND YET the UK government are acting like proper little shites and I’m still having to work so this is just a warning that the next chapter may be a little late as it’s hard enough having to deal with work deadlines whilst dying from the plague without also having to work on this. (Don’t get me wrong, I love writing this SO much and all of your kudos and lovely comments make me super fukin happy, but I do have to prioritise my work :-/). Sorry, guys, I’m gonna try my best to get this next chapter written as quickly as I can.

They do not speak about it.

Life goes on, with Thomas and William both pretending that they did not hold hands, that they did not gaze into each other’s eyes for God knows how long, that William did not softly wipe away the tears that Thomas had shed at the thought of losing him, that Thomas did not spend three days and three nights at William’s bedside, praying for him to heal, too scared to fall asleep in case the knight was not there when he woke up…

It is easy to pretend to each other, but Thomas cannot lie to himself.

And it is difficult, when there is nothing else to fill his time with, to fill his mind with. Thomas is busy, of course, he is always busy, but his tasks are menial and undemanding, plenty of brain capacity left over to just _think_.

But though Thomas’ mind is reeling, on the surface he appears normal. He is good at this, having too much practice in acting his usual cheerful self during times of mental turmoil. If anyone suspects his fragile performance, they do not comment. And, really, why would they?

April turns into May at a sluggish pace; the blossom falls from the cherry trees in cook’s garden, the white flowers that carpet the ground looking like a snowfall for a few sweet days before turning soggy and brown and sad; four leaders of the peasant rebellion are hung in the castle courtyard, their bodies left to sway sickeningly in the wind for several hours afterwards; there is a week of rainfall followed by a week of cloudy skies followed by a week of dazzling sunlight and, in the brilliant rays, William develops three new freckles on his nose.

And through it all, Thomas burns from the inside out.

Erinmore informs Thomas that he is being sent on a tour of his father’s counties and he is relieved. Of course, William is to go with him, still acting as his protection despite no further attempts on his life. Being in William’s company is painful, but being without him is worse, and at least Thomas will have distractions, a change of scene, a different outlook to draw him away from the fire in his heart. Thomas has travelled before, but never in such an official capacity, and he even allows himself to feel excitement at the prospect. He has never been given such responsibility before.

But his mother has reservations.

“I don’t like it, Erinmore. Is this really the greatest idea in the current climate?” The Queen is pacing Thomas’ chambers restlessly, the Lord High Steward on his feet attempting to calm her and Thomas sat at his writing desk, silently surveying the two. He had not even called this meeting, and yet here they are.

“My Lady, the King has personally ordered this tour. If he believes Thomas to be ready, then we must agree with him.” Erinmore’s voice is level, but his face betrays his frustration.

“Two months! Two months away! Whatever will befall Windsor in that time, without a Lord to watch over it? And what of Thomas himself? Have you forgotten the cup bearer, Erinmore?”

“I have to go, mother.” Thomas pipes up, and Erinmore and the Queen both spin round to face him. “It is what Father has ordered, I have to do it.”

His mother walks over and kneels at Thomas’ feet, taking his face into her hands.

“You promised me you would be careful, Thomas. This just seems like such an unnecessary risk and-“

“Why would the risk be any greater away from Windsor, the very place where the attempt on my life occurred?” Thomas interrupts her. “Besides, Sir William will be coming with me.”

The Queen sighs and stands up again.

“I can’t prevent you from leaving, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.” She snaps, her voice shaking slightly with emotion.

Thomas gets up from the chair and walks over to his mother, pulling her into a hug.

“I will be careful, I promise. But you needn’t worry about me so much.” Thomas whispers into her shoulder.

“Such is the curse of motherhood.” The Queen sniffs. “I just can’t let anything happen to you, not after losing Jane.”

“I know, I know.” Thomas pulls away and gives his mother what he hopes is a reassuring smile. He turns to face the steward. “That will be all, Erinmore.”

“Very good, then.” Erinmore says curtly, nodding his head. He makes his way across the room, stopping short just before reaching the door. “You leave tomorrow at dawn.”

****************************************

“How long is the journey, marshal?”

Thomas stands by the castle stables, him and Smith two solitary figures in a sea of commotion as horses are tacked up, supplies loaded into saddlebags and the carriage prepared.

“We hope to reach Warwick by noon on Friday, my Lord.” Smith replies before giving Thomas a quick bow of his head and then excusing himself to oversee the bringing out of the horses.

The travelling party is larger than Thomas had anticipated, constituting of himself, William, Smith, three other knights, two horse handlers, five servants and sixteen horses. They would hardly be an inconspicuous sight travelling over England’s countryside, but Thomas supposes that the larger their number, the less vulnerable to roadside bandits they would be.

Thomas wanders idly over to where Myrtle is dozing on the stone floor of the stables. The round patch of sunlight that shines on her resting place is smaller than her own body, but she has curled herself up into an impossibly minute ball to rectify this. Thomas chuckles fondly at the sight and crouches down to scratch behind the dog’s ears.

“Don’t let Cook spoil you whilst I’m away, you’ll end up too fat to hunt a beetle, let alone a deer.” Thomas coos at Myrtle and she yaps happily back in response.

“Saying goodbye?” William’s voice rings out from somewhere above Thomas, and he cranes his neck upwards to see the knight standing over him, a soft smile on his features. Thomas feels his cheeks turning pink and he hastily nods and looks back down at the ground.

“I’ll miss her.” William mutters wistfully, reaching a hand down to help Thomas up. Thomas tries very hard to ignore the quickening of his heart rate as their palms touch and fingers intertwine.

“We’ll only be gone two months.” Thomas reasons, reaching down to wipe imaginary dirt from his breeches just so his hands have something to do.

“Oh. Yes, I suppose.” William replies, a shifty look crossing his features for a fleeting moment before being replaced by the usual serious demeanour.

“We’re moving out!” Smith shouts from somewhere in the general vicinity and they make their way over to where the horses are tethered to the carriage.

“Will you be riding in the carriage, William?” Thomas asks, taking his travelling cloak from the arms of a nearby servant and securing it around his neck.

“I really shouldn’t, Thomas. I fear it would be inappropriate, and, besides, if we are attacked I will be of more use on horseback.”

“Shame. It will be frightfully boring without your company.” Thomas sighs. He grabs a hold of the carriage frame and hauls himself up into it but turning back to face William before the door closes.

“Your safety is more important to me than anything.” William says gravely, and Thomas feels his breath catch at the penetrating stare the knight fixes him with. He does not know how to respond so he simply nods and gives William a shaky smile, who bows and strides off, presumably in the direction of his horse.

In the quiet, dark interior of the carriage, Thomas lets out a shuddering breath, pressing the backs of his hands against the red flesh of his cheeks in an attempt to cool them down. He hates how flustered he becomes around William, his body constantly betraying him.

Except… no. He doesn’t hate it, could never hate the agitation or the giddy happiness or the lurches of excitement. He doesn’t even hate the pain, the longing, the heartache. Thomas can’t remember the last time he felt so alive, all because of this one, inconvenient man. He is a miracle, an angel, a saint, and Thomas would walk to Jerusalem and back just for some small souvenir of his love. He wonders if he is being tested. Is this what the devil’s temptation feels like?

The worst part is that, even if William _were_ sent by the devil to tempt him, hell, even if he were the devil himself, Thomas would still love him.

And there is nothing in the world he can do to stop it.

****************************************

The first day of travelling takes longer than anticipated and they do not pass an inn until reaching Wheatley at close to 10 o’ clock that night. The following day does not go much better and it is not until late Friday evening that they arrive at Warwick. As such, it is only on Saturday morning that Thomas gets to speak to William for the first time since setting off.

The knight is waiting for Thomas outside the chambers that the Earl of Warwick, Mackenzie, had been kind enough to prepare for him. Thomas barely manages to prevent himself from embracing William when he sees him, not having realised how much he had missed his presence. He settles for reaching his hand to briefly squeeze William’s shoulder, his mouth widening into a grin without his permission.

“I don’t think we’ve ever spent this long apart since the first day we met.” William says with a laugh, as if he could read Thomas’ mind.

“Was it as strange for you as it was for me?” Thomas asks, nudging his shoulder against William’s.

“It was very silent. I never realised how much you talk until I was without your voice.” Williams grins, his eyes flashing with mirth.

“I certainly _didn’t _miss your snarky comments.”

“But you did miss the rest of me?” William asks, his tone still light and humorous but his expression suddenly serious. Thomas pauses, caught off guard by William’s question.

“Do you have to ask me that?” Thomas whispers, all facetiousness gone from his voice.

The moment has shifted imperceptibly, and Thomas can taste danger in the air. It is sharp and metallic like blood, and it fills him with nervous excitement. Perhaps William senses it too, because he takes a step back, his eyes suddenly hollow and his mouth twisting into a grimace. Thomas recognises the change in William’s demeanour, knows from experience that he will be closed-off for the rest of the day. No point in trying to get through to him now.

Thomas sighs and looks away.

“Where were you put up for the night?” He asks, trying to change the topic.

“The others all stayed at inns in the town, but I thought it best if I stayed here, in the castle, closer to you, in case anything were to happen.” William muttered, his face turning red.

“Where in the castle?” Thomas replies, frowning. As far as he knew, apart from Mackenzie’s private quarters and the chambers that had been prepared for Thomas, there were no other rooms.

“In the kitchen.”

“With the servants? On the floor?” Thomas splutters, incredulous.

“Well… I had a mat.” William replies in a small voice.

Thomas barks out a laugh.

“You are far too committed to this, William. Whatever did I do to deserve you?”

In answer, William just shrugs his shoulders, his face still split by a frown, and they walk on. Mackenzie is waiting for them when they reach the end of the corridor.

“Lord Windsor!” The Earl calls and Thomas nods his head in response. They shake hands.

“I trust you slept well?”

“Yes, thank you. I must express my gratitude at your welcoming us so graciously.” Thomas begins but Mackenzie waves a hand to dismiss it.

“When the King’s son plans a visit, you can hardly deny him that, can you?” Mackenzie replies, matter-of-factly. Thomas is surprised by the candidness of his words, but he doesn’t mind it.

“No, I suppose you’re right.”

So that was the extent of the formalities, then. They fall into a slightly awkward silence.

“Well, whilst I am here, I have much business to discuss with you. My father is hoping to repair discrepancies in his public record of the counties. I trust you keep a survey of your lands? Stocks, taxes, tenant fees, that sort of thing…” Thomas trails off, suddenly aware that Mackenzie’s eyes have glazed over slightly.

“Yes, yes, yes, straight to business, of course. Just like your father. But actually, that can wait, Lord Windsor, I have someone I wish for you to meet. Follow me.” Mackenzie replies before suddenly striding off in the direction he came from, not waiting for Thomas’ agreement.

Thomas and William share a slightly concerned glance and then hurry to catch up with the Earl.

Mackenzie leads them through the castle swiftly, Thomas having to take longer strides than is natural for his shorter frame to account for the pace. Once they arrive at a small doorway framed by hung tapestries and flanked by two guards, Mackenzie halts.

“In here, Lord Windsor.” he orders, then flinging open the door and ushering Thomas and William into what appears to be the antechamber to his private chambers, a small, simple room with a writing desk facing outwards and a roaring fireplace. There are two women standing beside the fire, and they turn and curtsied upon Thomas’ entry. The first woman Thomas knows to be Mackenzie’s wife, the Countess of Warwick, a matronly figure with a stern mouth and very dark, perpetually cross-looking eyebrows. The second woman Thomas does not know, but she appears to be about his age, dressed in a surprisingly fine gown for the casual setting, her dark hair done up tightly in an elaborate fashion to accentuate the pleasing shapeliness of her cheekbones and high forehead.

“This is my eldest daughter, Isolde.” Mackenzie announces, and the younger woman steps forward as if on cue, stretching out her arm. Thomas takes it and bows to kiss her hand.

“I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Lord Windsor.” Isolde simpers, batting the eyelashes that frame her wide blue eyes. Behind Thomas, William gives a small cough.

“I must return the pleasure, of course, my Lady.” Thomas replies.

“Your father and I have been planning this meeting for some time.” Mackenzie grins, rubbing his hands together eagerly.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I quite understand…” Thomas admits, smiling bemusedly at the Earl.

“How does it feel to be finally meeting your future wife, my Lord?” The Countess smiles, holding her arms out wide as if she were presenting a suckling pig at a feast and not the maidenhead of her own daughter.

For a few shocked seconds, Thomas cannot even speak.

“My… wife?!” He splutters, finally.

“Oh yes. This union has been promised to me since you were both wee babes, Lord Windsor. Your father never told you?” Mackenzie is still smiling, but a small glimmer of worry has appeared in the lines above his brow.

“No, he definitely did not.” Thomas replies in a small voice, his mind still coursing with shock.

“Ah well, it is no matter. I don’t doubt that you are happy with the match, my daughter is very beautiful, is she not?”

“Yes, yes, very beautiful.” Thomas mutters hurriedly, “but-“

“I would like to show you around the castle gardens, my Lord, if it so pleases you? The weather is so wonderful today.” Isolde interrupts Thomas, holding her arm out. Under the beady eye of Mackenzie, Thomas can do nothing else but take the arm into his own. After glancing at her father for approval she leads him back out of the room. Thomas looks around at William for help or an escape or _something_, but William just fixes him with a glare and follows silently after them. Defeated, and now resigned to the situation, Thomas allows himself to be led away, down the corridor, into the entrance hall, and out into the courtyard.

As soon as they are in the fresh air, Isolde seems to relax. She withdraws her arm and even slouches a little.

“I apologize for my father, he is quite… stubborn.” Isolde scoffs bitterly and Thomas gives a weak laugh, still trying to process the situation.

Isolde glances behind them.

“Does this knight follow you wherever you go?” She asks, amused. Thomas follows her gaze to look at William, whose face is stony and sullen.

“My mother assigned him as my protection after there was an assassination attempt on my life.” Thomas explains.

“How sweet.” Isolde replies with a mocking laugh, but her eyes hold no sign of malice, and Thomas finds himself laughing along with her.

“Well he seems very devoted to you. Quite the sourpuss though, is he always like that?” Isolde queries.

Thomas glances back at William again. He doesn’t understand the knight’s sudden hostile demeanour. He had guessed that he would be quiet from their interaction earlier that day, but he has never seen William like this. So aggressively morose.

“No, not at all.”

“Hmm. As long as it doesn’t spoil our fun.” Isolde laughs again, and Thomas has to admit that her good nature is infectious.

As Isolde guides them through the gardens, past ornamental hedges and wandering peacocks, Thomas relaxes into the outing, even starting to enjoy the company. It seems Isolde has a fierce humour and a penchant for mischief that almost matches his own. And he can of course appreciate her beauty, if only from a detached point of view, as a master artisan can appreciate an expertly-painted fresco.

“I will not marry you, Lord Windsor.” Isolde states after a while, catching Thomas off guard.

“I’m not sure I understand.” He replies.

“I do not wish to marry you, regardless of what my father says. In fact, I intend to marry another, a man I actually love. I would apologise for disappointing you, but I do not believe you are too sorry.” Isolde’s tone is business-like and stern, but she appears worried.

“You are as smart and amusing as you are beautiful, sweet Isolde, you would make a perfect wife.” Thomas reasons.

“And yet.” Isolde smiles sadly.

“And yet.” Thomas echoes, their understanding mutual.

“Since the age of thirteen I have known the shameless gazes of men. I know when I am wanted… and when I am not. You do not burn for me, Thomas, do you?” 

Thomas pauses for a moment. _Is it that obvious?_

“Your eyes are the wrong shade of blue.” Thomas says finally, and Isolde nods, her expression knowing.

“A friendship then?”

“I would like that very much, my Lady.” Thomas nods, and Isolde laughs and takes his arm again. “But what of your father?”

“You must tell him you refuse to marry me. Tell him that I am the most ugly, boring, frightful creature you have ever had the displeasure to meet and that you would rather bed your horse than spend another moment in my presence.” Isolde recites, and Thomas cannot help but chuckle.

“You want me to start a civil uprising, then?”

“If need be.” Isolde replies, her eyes twinkling.

Thomas stops walking, pulling Isolde round to face him.

“And what if he does not care? What if _my _father gets involved?” He says, his tone suddenly serious.

“It must not come to that, my Lord.” Isolde sighs and looks down at her hands. “In this life of mine I have had to sacrifice so much. Because of my father, my position, my gender… I envy you. I truly do. But there is one matter in which we are equals. I refuse to live without love, and I am willing to make any sacrifice to prevent it. Are you?”

Thomas does not answer immediately but ponders Isolde’s words for a moment, turning them over and over in his mind like rosary beads in the palm of a hand. He glances behind him. William is still standing patiently there, and when their eyes lock, Thomas feels a surge of emotion overtake him. He had known the answer to Isolde’s question as soon as she said it, he just wishes it weren’t so instinctive, he just wishes he had a choice in the matter.

“Yes.”

They return to the castle. Thomas can sense Isolde tensing up as the make their approach, preparing for the role of silent, dutiful daughter the closer they get to her father’s dominion. At the entrance to the courtyard, she turns and catches Thomas arm.

“I hope you find happiness with whichever maiden is lucky enough to have captured your heart.” Isolde tells Thomas, solemnly, placing a hand over his heart to emphasise the point.

Thomas appreciates the sentiment, though he suspects Isolde would feel differently if she actually knew who was the keeper of his love.

“I hope the same for you.”

****************************************

The Earl of Warwick hosts a banquet that night in honour of his guests. Thomas is, unsurprisingly, seated right next to Isolde at the high table, but he does not mind. With William placed at a table right at the other end of the great hall, Thomas is simply glad to be close to a friendly face. Although it seems that, even if Thomas _were _seated beside William, Isolde’s would still be the only non-hostile presence in the vicinity, as the knight continually shoots pointedly sullen glares in their direction.

Thomas tries not to let it bother him, already feeling exasperated by William’s earlier antics, and he throws himself wholeheartedly into conversation with Isolde.

“I should like to visit Santiago de Compostela, though I doubt my father would allow it.” Isolde is telling Thomas, in between small sips of wine.

“He is not the pious type?” Thomas asks.

“Oh no, Lord Windsor, he most certainly is. But he does not believe pilgrimage to be an appropriate activity for a woman to undertake.”

“But women have souls in need of religious nourishment just as men do.” Thomas reasons, and Isolde laughs bitterly in response.

“To my father’s estimations, female souls are not as… developed. They are more prone to sin, after all, all because of our seminal connection to Eve, the original sinner.” Isolde shakes her head in disgust.

“Well even if you are a terrible sinner, you’re a great deal more interesting than your father, not to mention much lovelier to behold.” Thomas jokes, and Isolde punches him playfully in the arm.

“You flatter me too much, Lord Windsor.” Isolde simpers, sarcastically.

“If it makes you feel any better, I have only ever been to Canterbury on pilgrimage and it wasn’t much to write home about. I think the only defining feature of that trip was the smell of horse manure.”

“If I am to go anywhere, it has to be abroad. To Sainte Foy, or Chartres, perhaps even Jerusalem!” Isolde exclaims, excitedly spreading her arms out in front of her and almost knocking over two ornate silver goblets in the process.

“You have your sights set high, then? How very devoted to salvation you are, my Lady.”

“I must speak honestly, my Lord, salvation really has nothing to do with it.” Isolde claps a hand to her mouth and gasps, “is that a terrible thing to say?”

“I shall be reporting it to your father.” Thomas replies gravely, his tone too theatrical to be serious, and Isolde rolls her eyes.

“I just think it would be nice to escape, to another country, somewhere big and open and airy. England is too constricting for me, I can hardly breathe sometimes. Don’t you ever feel like that?” Isolde asks, her face suddenly serious. 

“Of course.” Thomas sighs, running his hand through his hair.

“But, then again,” Isolde begins, shrugging her shoulders, “you are free to do as you please, aren’t you, my Lord?”

Thomas glances across the room and catches William’s eye.

“Not completely free.”

If Isolde finds Thomas’ statement to be mysterious, she does not comment on it.

Towards the end of the meal, the Earl approaches them, and Thomas sees Isolde immediately sit up straighter, the carefree smile draining from her face.

“I am pleased to see you two finding enjoyment in each other’s company.” Mackenzie nods approvingly, laying a possessive hand upon his daughter’s shoulder.

“Yes, father.” Isolde answers automatically, keeping her eyes lowered.

“Has my Isolde told you of her brothers?” Mackenzie leans down, bringing his face closer to Thomas’. “Six strong, capable men. Six! The ability to produce male heirs in this family is unrivalled by any other, Lord Windsor. And look, my daughter has the hips for child-bearing.” He gives them both a nod and then wanders away. Thomas is left slightly speechless.

“Such a charming man, your father.” Thomas mutters, and Isolde sighs sadly.

“Try having to live with him.”

Thomas is lost in thought for a moment.

“Isolde, if I married you, we could leave. I could take you away from this place, from your father. We could even go abroad, see those big, open, airy countries you yearn for.” Thomas says, excitedly, and Isolde raises a hand to cup his cheek, her eyes filling with tears.

“You are too noble, too kind, Thomas. But we cannot. You will never be happy with me, not when your heart burns for another.”

“It matters not who my heart burns for, for that ache will never be quenched. It is not… Our love cannot be.” Thomas exhales a hopeless breath.

“Don’t ever give up hope. I have not, and my happy ending with the one I love is almost completely unattainable.”

Thomas forces a smile onto his face and takes Isolde’s hands into his own.

“Tell me about him.”

****************************************

William walks Thomas back to his chambers after the banquet, his demeanour still cold and silent. Though Thomas tries to make conversation, William returns perhaps only two single words throughout the entire journey. Halfway along their route, Thomas stops suddenly, causing the knight to collide with him. He catches William’s arm and forces him round, making him look into his face.

“Hey, what is it? You haven’t spoken to me all day, and you seemed angry at the banquet.”

“You were busy.” William replies, sullenly avoiding Thomas’ eye.

Thomas frowns. He is starting to become extremely frustrated.

“What is that supposed to mean?” He snaps.

“It means I didn’t want to interrupt your little chat with your new _wife_.” William replies, pulling his face into a sneer.

“She is not my wife, nor will she ever be. She doesn’t even want to marry me and… what is this really about?”

“But you want to marry her, don’t you?” William takes a step closer to Thomas, swaying a little on his feet.

“You’re drunk.” Thomas scoffs, going to place a steadying hand on William’s shoulder, but, in his drunken state, the knight seems to interpret it as hostile. Grabbing Thomas’ hand, William shoves him backwards against the wall.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Thomas hisses, trying to break free of the hold but William is stronger than him. He lets his head fall back and William leans in closer, so close that their noses almost brush. Thomas feels his heart begin to race. 

William is frowning, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. And then his gaze drops to Thomas’ mouth.

“William” Thomas whispers, and, as if hearing his name makes him awaken from a spell, William blinks and lets go of Thomas.

“I… I have to go.” William stammers, staggering backwards. Thomas reaches out, trying to grab a hold of the knight, to stop him from leaving, but to no avail. William is gone, striding away down the corridor before Thomas can even blink. The footsteps echo out in the silence, each one louder than cannon fire to his weary brain.

Thomas makes the way back alone, feeling more confused than before, his mind reeling and his pulse racing. Upon entering his quarters, he finds that the fire has been lit by some servant perhaps only minutes before, judging by the state of the logs. He flops down beside the hearth and spends a long time just staring into the flames, mesmerised by their mercurial vigour. _William is a lot like fire_, Thomas thinks to himself. Mesmerising and beautiful and changeable and dangerous, with the ability to burn, and Thomas is obsessed.

It takes a long time for him to fall asleep, once he finally undresses and slips between the covers. And when slumber finally overtakes him, his dreams are dark and fiery, the kind to be forgotten by morning, leaving only a crushing sense of unease and a headache.

****************************************

Mackenzie does not react well to Thomas’ rejection of his daughter’s hand in marriage. Thomas at least has the sense to wait until the day of their departure to reveal the news, but the Earl becomes irate even so. He is not accustomed to denial, it seems.

Their farewell is an icy, perfunctory affair. Mackenzie refuses the handshake that Thomas offers, and even his wife remains silent as Thomas recites his goodbyes. Isolde, on the other hand, is almost over-the-top in her send-off. She bounds forward and embraces Thomas with a force that almost knocks him over, despite an extremely disapproving look from her father.

“Write to me, won’t you?” She asks, after having extricated herself.

“Of course.” Thomas agrees with a grin, before continuing in a whisper. “And you must let me know how it goes with your man.”

Isolde’s eyes twinkle as she gives Thomas a nod, stepping back behind her parents.

They travel to Stokesay next, the undulating green hills and winding streams of Shropshire pleasant enough to the eyes, but the Lord and Lady of the castle are the most tediously boring people Thomas has ever met in his life. For three long days he suffers their presence, going about his father’s business and trying to limit the amount of time he is duty bound to spend with them. To make it worse, William seems to have decided that he is not only unable to speak to Thomas, but also even glance in his direction. By the second day of silence, Thomas gives up trying to engage the knight, and the situation does not improve as they make the journey to Lincoln, nor even when they arrive.

The castle at Lincoln is situated right in the middle of the busy city, and Thomas finds it hard to get comfortable with the sounds and, even worse, smells of metropolitan life surrounding him. At least the inhabitants are slightly more interesting than those at Stokesay, but nothing can make up for the fact that William is still ignoring him.

Thomas has never known anyone so stubborn. Though they spend every moment of every waking hour in each other’s presence, William is resolute in his childish charade. Thomas even contemplates confronting him about, he can certainly feel an argument brewing underneath his prickling skin, sense his blood beginning to boil over. But he doesn’t do anything. He can contain it. For now.

It takes five days to get from Lincoln to Alnwick Castle in Northumberland, and Thomas spends the entire journey wrestling with his thoughts, attempting to disentangle whatever could have possibly gone wrong between himself and William. Is it possible that the knight found out about Thomas’ feelings for him? The thought sends a panic like freezing cold water rushing through Thomas’ body, the prospect too painful to bear. Except, that explanation makes little sense. Thomas has been careful, guarded; William cannot know.

But where, then, did it all begin? Upon their arrival in Warwick? William was quiet, it is true, on that day. But their suggestive conversation was surely not enough to spark such hostility. And it was not until Thomas’ meeting with the Earl that William became truly antagonistic. Not until Thomas’ meeting with Isolde.

The carriage hits a bump in the road, causing Thomas to be jerked upwards, hitting his head on the velvet roof. It does not hurt, but the jolt is enough to draw Thomas from his reverie, like a bolt of lightning or a horse’s hoof to the back of the neck. And with that jolt, a sudden thought enters Thomas’ mind. Is it possible that William’s sour mood could have come about for reasons of… jealousy? It is not an impossible suggestion, for though Thomas did not, or could not, find his feelings for Isolde deepening into anything beyond camaraderie, he could hardly deny her beauty. Perhaps William resented Thomas for this, for the fact that he could marry her, and the knight could not.

Except, when Thomas thinks about it, truly thinks about it, this makes little sense. William did not even exchange one single word with Isolde and, besides, Thomas refused the marriage arrangement. He and William were now one in the same in how likely it was that either marry Isolde.

Not jealousy then.

Or perhaps jealousy of a different sort? Did William feel as though Isolde had stolen Thomas’ friendship from him? But this does not explain why William is still in his foul mood, now almost a fortnight since their stay in Warwick.

Thomas thinks back to the night before their departure, how William had pushed him against that wall and then fled just as quickly. Thomas’ heart still beats too fast every time he recalls it, how William’s breath had ghosted gently over his cheek, the hard press of his hands against Thomas’ body, bracketing him in, hopeless and ensnared. The sensation is ingrained into Thomas’ skin like a tattoo, has permeated his mind so efficiently that even in his dreams he still feels the phantom press of strong arms over his own. If William had not bolted, Thomas is not sure he would have been able to stop himself from closing the distance between them and pressing their feverish lips together, even just for a moment. The thought is too much to bear.

But now Thomas thinks about it, he finds that he cannot give a satisfactory answer to the question of why William even bolted in the first place. Did he read Thomas’ intentions upon his lips and flee out of disgust?

Or was he, like Thomas, seconds away from a kiss, a fateful press of mouths, a prayer made material…

The realisation should hit Thomas like a punch to the gut, but instead it feels like an inevitability, as if he had known it to be true for months but only just remembered. And Thomas does not know how to feel. He has spent so long trying to suppress his feelings that he never even entertained the idea that they might be requited. The idea is more terrifying than anything, not because Thomas is scared, but because he knows that, whatever happens, he has to tell William.

They reach Alnwick just before noon, but Thomas does not get a chance to talk to William until after they have been fed. The Duke of Northumberland, a man by the name of Leslie, insists upon a great feast with wine and ale and meat and fish to celebrate the arrival of his guests. A more gracious host than Mackenzie, then, although this is hardly difficult to achieve. But Thomas only resents the drawn-out festivities, unable to fully engage with the Duke’s conversation or prevent himself from sending furtive glances in William’s direction every couple of minutes.

After, Leslie offers to show Thomas around the castle, but he declines, explaining that he wishes to rest after his long journey. Leslie has a servant show Thomas up to his chambers, William trailing behind, still sporting that wretched expression. The room is small, but cosy, little expense spared on the tapestries hanging along the walls to keep chilly drafts out. The servant makes a big fuss of lighting a fire in the great stone hearth, to the point that Thomas almost considers ordering him to abandon the smoking logs and leave him be. But the fire does eventually get lit and the servant leaves, bowing low enough upon his departure that his nose almost sweeps the floor.

When Thomas is finally alone with William, he rounds on him.

“You know that it’s alright.”

“What?” William looks shocked, having not exchanged any words with Thomas for weeks at this point.

“Wanting what you want. It’s alright, I don’t care.” Thomas lets out a shaky breath. “I want it too.”

William’s eyes go wide with shock and he takes a shaky step backwards.

“I have no idea what you are talking about.” He hisses, his eyes blazing with fire.

Thomas moves closer.

“Must you insist upon this ridiculous charade, William? You and I both know-“  
  


“What can you know? What can you possibly know? You understand nothing of the real world, Thomas. Don’t be so naïve.” William scoffs, taking another step backwards. But Thomas simply moves closer again, as if the both of them were engaged in some strange dance, a rhythmic push-and-pull that mirrored their internal emotional states. 

There is a moment of silence in which Thomas contemplates letting William win, letting him go on believing that there is nothing between them. It would be easier, safer, less unknown, less terrifying. Can Thomas abide with ambiguity?

He cannot.

“I may be naïve, but at least I’m not a coward.” Thomas says, his voice very calm but his mind anything but.

William opens his mouth to reply, lifting a finger to point into Thomas’ face, his mouth twisted with anger. He stills for a split-second, his body rigid and pulsing with energy, and then deflates. His face goes slack with defeat, his arm dropping suddenly to hang by his side again.

“We are not having this conversation right now.”

“You are killing yourself trying to keep this buried, William. Please. I would not bring it up if I was not _so_ sure about this, if I believed that we could go on living without at least _talking _about this.”

William takes a deep breath.

“I can’t be around you today, Thomas. I’m sorry, I just can’t.” He turns, starting to walk away. Thomas goes for a different approach.

“You have a duty, William! You can’t just leave, you swore an oath to protect me.” Thomas cries, blocking William’s way.

“I am going to say this as respectfully as I can, my Lord, please try not to be offended. Move out of my fucking way before I hurt you_._” William spits, his hands shaking with fury at his sides and his eyes focused intently upon the ground in front of him as if he is worried he will turn Thomas to stone if he even glances upwards. “I really don’t want to hurt you, Thomas.” 

Thomas recoils with shock, the tone of William’s voice filled with a desperate rage he has never known in his life. His body goes limp and the knight shoulders roughly past him.

Thomas stays standing in his chambers for a long time after William walks away. Alone. As it has always been and will forever be. And if no one is there to witness the bitter tears that fall, did they even really happen?

****************************************

After the aching brightness of the sun, the shaded forest is a welcome retreat.

After William’s departure, an occurrence that was becoming far too customary for Thomas’ liking, he had left his chambers to find Leslie, stating that he had changed his mind and would care for a tour of the castle after all. The Duke had been more than happy to oblige, taking Thomas on a rapid, whistle-stop tour of his dominion. As a walking companion, Leslie was amusing enough, in a spiky, sarcastic sort of way, but Thomas found that he could muster very little pretence of good humour. Perhaps sensing this, Leslie had taken his leave after showing Thomas around the grounds of the castle, suggesting that he take advantage of the good weather and go explore the small woodland area bordering it.

There was something about being amongst trees that gave Thomas peace of mind, even in his darkest hours. Perhaps it was the archaic wisdom that only a living organism as old as they were could inspire, the awareness that, regardless of who you were, a tree has lived countless lifetimes before you were even brought into the world and will continue to live after you have left it. Regardless, Thomas feels his worries melting away as he wanders through a sea of deciduous oaks, all melancholy turning into bittersweet acceptance, all yearning into a quiet fire. Thomas can’t have lost William, because he was never really his. You cannot lose something you never possessed.

The afternoon is still unbearably hot, even in its maturity, and as Thomas walks, he finds himself starting to sweat. At first, he only undoes the buttons of his kirtle, but when that does little to assuage his discomfort, he has to forgo it completely, draping it over the crook of his elbow. Loosening his undershirt until it gapes open at the throat, Thomas continues on, knowing that it would be highly inappropriate if anyone were to come across him in his half-dressed state, but unable to find the energy to care. There is no one else in the woods, after all.

Except that does not turn out to be strictly true. To Thomas’ surprise he soon comes across the lounging figure of William, his back against a tree and his arms folded nonchalantly over his chest. He stares serenely into space, lost in thought, his usually tense, serious face smoothed over by peacefulness. Thomas wishes that his heart would not jump so feverishly in his chest at the sight of the knight, but it seems the more he attempts to temper his feelings the more violently they emerge, bigger and bolder than before. And William just looks so lovely, sitting there, the branches of the tree he leans against forming a kind of halo around his fair head. If Thomas did not consider his feelings for William to be a sin, he would have called him an angel.

William has not sensed his approach, it appears, but taking a step closer, a twig breaks under his foot, causing William to snap his head round. Upon seeing Thomas standing there, William leaps to his feet, shame marring his features.

“My Lord, I’m sorry.” William stutters out, his posture becoming stiff and his face returning to that serious mask. His eyes travel down Thomas’ casual form, taking in the lack of an outer layer and his loosened shirt, open to the collar bone. Clearing his throat, he looks away, though not quick enough that Thomas does not catch the violent flush that blooms over his cheeks.

“I thought we disposed of those formalities weeks ago, Sir William.” Thomas smiles, drawing closer. 

“And yet you address me by my knighted title.” William reasons, his eyes fixed on Thomas’ face, the pupils darting around nervously as if he were a trapped animal.

“You earned your knighthood, I was simply born into my position.” Thomas laughs bitterly, advancing closer still to William’s frozen figure.

“You were chosen by God.”

“What has God got to do with it?”

“Everything.” William whispers shakily, a pleading look to his eyes.

Thomas realises that they are no longer referring to the divine right of Kings.

“William-“ Thomas starts, his voice soft, a hand reaching out to… what? But William finally moves away, his movements staccato and panicked as he begins to pace. Thomas reaches out again, this time making contact and succeeding in stilling William’s movements.

“Please don’t do this, Thomas.” William’s tone is wretched, but Thomas does not, cannot, believe the words.

“Why not? Give me one good reason to ignore this… whatever this is.” Thomas exclaims, his voice coming out angrier than he had planned. He hopes William does not answer, as he himself can come up with a good deal many reasons why they should ignore their inexplicable connection. But Thomas cannot bring himself to resist anymore. He is tired, and he just does not care.

“Because if you ask me to do this I will not be able to deny you.” William’s teeth are gritted, and he seems hell bent on refusing to meet Thomas’ gaze.

“You think I would abuse my power like that? You think I would force this on you if I thought you weren’t just as desperate as… if you didn’t want it.” Thomas spits out furiously, throwing his kirtle down with a huff of anger. William’s eyes suddenly meet his, and Thomas sees the turmoil within them. Guilt and longing and doubt and pain and desire all wound up in this one man’s eyes.

“No, Thomas.” William’s eyes are burning with intensity, his voice barely above a whisper. “It was hard enough just being around you when… when I thought you felt nothing of what I did. When I thought you saw me as, at the very most, a simple friend. You do not even understand the pain I have gone through trying to pretend that I do not feel for you; that I do not desire terrible, sinful, un-Godly things from you. And I have tried to pray them away, and I have tried to resist you, and I am so close to breaking. It will take nothing. So, if you cross that boundary I don’t think we will ever make it back. I am just too exhausted trying to pretend that I do not love you.” When William finishes speaking, he almost appears relieved by his own shocking admission. Some of the tenseness has gone from his shoulders as if he had been carrying his love around like a wooden cross on his back.

Thomas just stands there, frozen, physically and mentally, by William’s words.

And William does not break his gaze.

It is a very long time before anyone speaks. Endless moments stretching out, punctuated only by a few sweet stanzas of bird song, the creaking of branches in the wind.

“I think you’ll find I understand that specific pain much more than you know.” Thomas finally says, his tone quiet and his eyes gentle.

William sucks a harsh breath in through his teeth.

“You mean…”

“Yes, William. How could you ever doubt how desperate, how devoted my lo-“ Thomas does not get a chance to finish his sentence. William had begun moving before Thomas had even opened his mouth, advancing like a lion to its prey. And now his arms are wrapping around Thomas, his fingers reaching out to lift Thomas’ chin. And when their lips meet it tastes like salvation.

Thomas has never been kissed before, but even if he had been kissed ten thousand times he knows this kiss would rank above them all. William kisses like the coming of an April rain storm: slowly and gently at first, and then suddenly with so much power and certainty that Thomas almost feels his kneels buckle under the weight of such devotion. William is a great flood and Thomas is all too happy to be drowning.

Realising that his arms are hanging limply at his sides, Thomas wills them to move, to ground himself. He raises them to William’s chest, pressing his palms hard and flat until he can feel the topology of hard muscle underneath layers of fabric. William has never been more material to Thomas, as he presses desperate hands against the knight’s solid form. And yet, at the same time, he is as ephemeral as smoke, filling Thomas up until he is nothing but a vessel, a receptacle for adoration.

Did Thomas even exist before this moment, before William chose to christen his body with his touch, his lips with a kiss? Thomas keens forward, wishing he could push hard enough that they become one being, not an inch of space allowed to exist between them. William seems to echo the sentiment as he snakes a hand to the back of Thomas’ head, forcing their faces to collide impossibly closer.

Walking their intertwined bodies backwards, William shoves Thomas up against a nearby tree. The impact sends needles of pain down Thomas’ spine, but the sting only emboldens him. Freeing his arms from where they are crushed between both of their chests, Thomas grabs clumsily at William’s hips, drawing circles over the prominent hip bones, just discernible underneath bunched up silk, with his thumbs. William moans in response and Thomas feels an almost painful lurch of pleasure travel straight to his crotch at the filthily debauched noise. Digging his fingers in hard enough to bruise, Thomas yanks William’s groin towards his own, pulling them together with blundering force. Thomas’ head falls backwards against the rough surface of the tree, his mouth open in a silent moan, his eyes shut tight. Thomas can feel William’s hardness pressing against his own, but the knight has gone very still around him, frozen in place.

Suddenly, cold.

Thomas’ arms are empty. William has slipped away as fast as he had advanced.

Opening his eyes and staring wildly around him, Thomas spots William a few yards away. His eyes are wide and fearful, a grimace twisting at the corners of his lips. Thomas starts towards him, but William just shakes his head emphatically, taking another step backwards.

“I’m sorry.” William whispers.

“Don’t-“ Thomas starts, throwing out an arm in a halting gesture, but it is too late. William has already fled, dissipating into the treeline as swiftly and as easily as a drop of blood into an ocean of water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thomas is called Lord Windsor a fair amount throughout this chapter as I didn’t think it was appropriate for Mackenzie or Leslie to address a man of the same rank of them as ‘my Lord’. He is not called Lord Blake or Lord Thomas because, when addressing a man in this way, he would have been called by his title (Lord) followed by the county or castle he resided over (Windsor).
> 
> It's kinda ambiguous as to where people who weren’t the Lord or his family actually slept in medieval castles, but most of my research suggests that the domestic servants would sleep on the floor in the great hall or kitchen as close to the fire as possible because it would get friggin cold at night even in summer. If it was a particularly big castle there might be dorm type rooms for military personnel but, again, it’s kinda hard to get cold hard facts on this. I figured it was pretty likely that Will would sleep with the rest of the servants so he is closer to Tom, and the rest of the knights in inns in the nearby town. But honestly, medieval sleeping arrangements are not my area of expertise lol. However, an interesting fact for you guys: people did not sleep laying down in beds in the middle ages due to superstitious reasons (too close to the position of the dead), they slept sitting upright instead. This is probably why, when you visit historic houses, the beds are really fukin tiny. 
> 
> Isolde refers to Santiago de Compostela, which is a town famous for its cathedral, the most important pilgrimage site in Spain as it is the rumoured burial place of St James (one of the disciples of Christ). The name translates to Saint James of the Field of Stars, as it is alleged in (one of) the stories of the saint that a hermit found his bodily remains after being guided to the spot by a star. Women were much less likely to undertake pilgrimage in the Middle Ages, especially if the pilgrimage route involved international travel, (with a few exceptions, like Margery Kempe, an English mystic who took, and recorded in writing, many pilgrimages to the Holy Land but was tried for heresy many times as women were not allowed to preach) and so one of the ways they would engage with this sort of worship was through virtual pilgrimage. This took many different forms, including reading the travel diaries of people who actually went on a pilgrimage (e.g. The Travels of Sir John Mandeville), the building of dioramas or studying maps and trying to imagine themselves in the places listed upon it. One of the most interesting methods of virtual pilgrimage, in my opinion, is the use of church floor labyrinths. The most famous example of this is in Chartres Cathedral in France, and it is a massive tiled spiral maze design which people would walk along, pretending that they were walking the route to Jerusalem.  
I got one (1) comment on the last chapter asking for a playlist for this fic and that was enough for me to do it so here ya go:
> 
> [if-gold-rust-what-shall-iron-do-playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/24JBNJYUnavhTpxXwVqgfM?si=MVbRsC-fSUSZbJBRM6-9Yg)


	5. A Promise

Midnight has most certainly come and gone, the dawn chorus just starting to filter through the castle walls, and yet sleep still evades Thomas. His mind reels with the afternoon’s events: the assured press of a hot, solid body against his own, trapped between that tree and William, hands and lips captured in a fevered embrace. He even remembers the mundanities, like the sound the birds had made around them, how the branches had rustled in the almost non-existent breeze, the unmistakeable smell of mossy earth and wet bark. It seems painfully ironic that Thomas should be able to recall these things so readily when, in the end, it was all for nought.

_William, William, William. _He takes up all Thomas’ thoughts until there is no space in his mind for anything but William’s scent, wood smoke and lavender, and the way his eyes light up when he laughs, as if he is just as surprised as anyone else that he be capable of such a thing, and his long, artistic fingers, so unusual to be found on the hands of a fighting man. And his lips. And his broad shoulders. And the sharp curve of his jaw. And his pale throat. Even the swell of his earlobe. Thomas really has no right to be getting so worked up over a fucking earlobe_, _and yet here he is.

Thomas is lovesick, there is no other explanation. It always seemed so much more appealing in the love stories that Jane used to like. Thomas was never particularly fond of them, but he recalls a few of her favourites, like the doomed passions of Lancelot and Guinevere, or the slightly less gloomy tale of Érec and Énide. And wasn’t there one in which the spurned hero, driven mad by his affections, made love to his pillow in his sleep, believing it to be his lady? At least Thomas has not descended to _that_ level of wretchedness as of yet.

Thomas sighs and wrestles with his bed sheets, not for any real reason, but just to have something to do. He isn’t uncomfortable per se, but the turbulent state of his mind is making his skin prickle unpleasantly, making him feel as though he would like to escape this prison he calls his body.

No, lovesickness is no laughing matter. It _hurts. _Everything hurts: his chest aches, and his head pounds and his throat scratches with the words it wishes to come out with. It doesn’t help that Thomas can still feel the ghost of William’s affections in his swollen lips and grazed spine from being pushed up against that rough bark. Thomas reaches round to rub over the broken skin of his back, wincing a little. If this wound be the only souvenir of his brief taste of perfection, then so be it, he’ll have to learn to love it in the same manner he loves William.

A knock at the door startles Thomas and he jumps, pulling the bed covers up to his chin in a defensive gesture. A nocturnal visitor at this sort of time is never for anything good.

“Yes?” Thomas calls, his voice a little hoarse.

The door opens and a figure, shrouded in shadow and clutching a flickering oil lamp, steps into the room. Though it be dark, with only moonlight and the flame of the lamp casting its beam, the identity of the figure is unmistakeable. Thomas’ heart stops as William’s face is brought into relief by smoky candlelight. William has always had the most expressive face, once Thomas took the time to notice it, and here is no exception. Underneath the layers of fear and trepidation and guilt apparent on his features, Thomas recognises an altogether different emotion: hunger.

“William? What are you doing here?” Thomas whispers, panicked and confused.

William does not reply. He moves slowly but surely, closing the door behind him, making sure that he is gentle with the latch so that it makes no noise. Thomas can only watch as William walks calmly towards him, placing his lamp onto the bedside table, and then crawling gracefully onto the bed. Before he can protest, William has pulled Thomas towards him.

And then he is kissing him.

Thomas melts into his touch, feeling as though he is submerging from water, as though he can finally breathe again after so long without air. It is strange how a single person’s touch can fill you up from the inside until you are completely and utterly overflowing with them, can break you down with just a single brush of lips and then rebuild you in their own image, how they can touch you once and from that moment on, you will do anything to have them touch you again, even for a minute, even for a second. In that instant, Thomas wishes he could survive on kisses alone. That way, William would be forced to keep their lips connected in this solitary embrace for as long as they both live.

With that in mind, Thomas almost objects when William pulls away, so close to taking his face in his hands and yanking them back together, but William has other plans. Thomas gives a cry of surprise when, suddenly, William’s mouth is on his neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. The sensation sends sparks through Thomas’ body, and all he can do is moan.

“Did anyone see you?” Thomas breathes into William’s ear, his voice laced with fear. William raises his head and meets Thomas’ eyes. If he notices the trepidation within them, he does not comment on it.

“No.” William kisses him again, a fleeting graze that leaves Thomas wanting more and then some. “I’m sorry. I had to come, Thomas, I couldn’t leave it the way-”

“I know, I know…” Thomas interrupts William with absent-minded haste, pulling him in again, not wanting their mouths to be apart for a single second.

With dawning realisation, Thomas becomes aware of his nakedness beneath the thin bed sheets. Of course, he was aware of this before, but with William, a clothed William, so close to him it has become an altogether different kind of awareness. Thomas is naked, and William is fully-clothed, and it is such a small, insignificant fact but it fills Thomas with an overwhelming, overpowering lust.

As if aware of this himself, William takes a corner of the bed sheets between his forefinger and thumb and pulls it down, slowly, as if divulging a secret. Thomas shivers apprehensively as he is revealed to William, the air so thick with erotic tension he almost chokes on it.

“William, I want-“ Thomas begins, ashamed at how wrecked his voice sounds, but William reaches forward and places a finger over his mouth, cutting him off.

Thomas should feel indignant at this interruption, but the feeling of William’s fingertips pressing hesitantly into the sensitive surface of his lips is too much to bear. There is a moment in which nothing happens, and then, slowly, oh so slowly, William begins to move his finger, caressing it gently over the border of Thomas’ mouth. From what Thomas can feel, he imagines that William is tracing a word, planting a seed that might make Thomas utter the sentence that he writes. What words, though? If it were Thomas, he might trace the first thing he ever said to the knight. _You saved my life. _Carved into his skin forever. Or perhaps something even more poetic? _I love you. I burn only for you. A thousand lifetimes would not be enough to spend with you. _Thomas feels himself growing hard at the thought of this imagined conversation between his lips and William’s fingers, the idea that they could communicate just like this forever, skin to skin, and never have to utter another word.

“So beautiful...” William breathes, and he breaks the spell, but Thomas does not begrudge him. He likes William’s voice just as much as he likes his fingertips.

Thomas parts his lips and lets his tongue dart out, tasting the salt of William’s skin. William sucks in a sharp breath between his teeth and his eyes flash with something that looks like a warning.

“Open your mouth, Thomas.” William commands, his eyes dark and demanding, and when Thomas obliges, he slips two fingers inside. Thomas moans around the digits, allowing his tongue to move gently over William’s digits, his knuckles. Now that Thomas is able to trace his own words into William’s skin, what will he write?

But William does not give him the opportunity because then he is reaching down and taking Thomas’ cock into his palm, his hand slipping easily over the head with the slick of spit to ease it.

“Just to touch you is a miracle. I would spend the rest of my life worshipping your skin if I could.” William whispers, twisting his wrist in a way that makes Thomas cry out.

“And I would let you.” Thomas gasps, letting his head fall back onto the pillow.

William takes his hand away, and Thomas sits up, ready to protest, but then he sees that William is unbuttoning his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders and discarding it. A great expanse of pale skin greets Thomas and he lets his eyes drink in the sight, slowly, luxuriously, as if they had all the time in the world to become acquainted with each other’s bodies.

And there is certainly a degree of urgency to William’s movements, his breathing ragged and his gaze refusing to leave Thomas’ face. Thomas wonders if William, like himself, expects the moment to be short-lived, the prospect too good to be true. He wants to tell him to slow down, but he is just as doubtful of the amount of time they have. He wants it to last, but he doesn’t believe they will be given that liberty.

Scrabbling around him, William suddenly produces a small jar, as if from thin air.

“What’s that?” Thomas asks.

“Salve. For…” William’s cheeks turn pink and his expression becomes very earnest. “Thomas, I want to fuck you.”

Thomas stills, not knowing how to reply, feeling like a deer caught in the path of a huntsman’s arrow.

“But we don’t have to, not if you don’t want to.” William clarifies hastily, his hand going around to hide the jar of salve in the folds of the bed sheets, trying to pretend he never even put forward the idea.

“William, I do want it, I want you” Thomas murmurs, placing a hand over William’s chest to soothe him. “It’s just that… I’ve never done this before.”

“With a man?” William asks, and Thomas shakes his head.

“With anyone.”

William lets out a breath, slowly, his eyes flashing.

“But you know how to, right? I mean, you know what it entails?” William’s words come rushing out in a nervous stream of consciousness.

Thomas nods. He’s heard the chaplain go on about the sin of sodomy often enough, caught whispers here and there of that special kind of passion that grants you with a one-way-ticket straight to the fiery pits of hell. He just never thought it’d be him, asking for it so blatantly. But they have already done enough to incite God’s wrath, and, if loving can even be worthy of punishment, what more harm can they do?

“If you don’t like it, just tell me to stop.” William breathes, settling himself beside Thomas, his body curving round to bracket him completely. He places a burning kiss over Thomas’ shoulder, and then, with shaking fingers, dips into the jar of salve. He lowers them to Thomas’ crotch, under his cock, brushing over the furled flesh there. Thomas jumps slightly at the touch.

“What are you doing?” Thomas whispers heatedly, feeling his face turning red.

“I-I have to prepare you, so it doesn’t hurt.” William stammers, frowning slightly.

“Oh.” Thomas says simply, and William resumes his movements.

When William’s finger first pushes into him, Thomas cannot prevent his sharp intake of breath. William snaps his head up rapidly at that, a question in his eyes: _Am I hurting you? _Thomas just smiles and shakes his head, encouraging him to continue. It is not quite a pain, not quite discomfort, it is just… strange. Thomas can’t explain it. And it is only when, quite some time later, William has his third finger buried deep within him, and is biting gently into the divot where his neck meets his collar bone, that Thomas is suddenly hit with an intense wave of pleasure that makes him shiver involuntarily. He lets slip a moan that sounds more like a question, a statement of surprise. _It shouldn’t feel this good, should it?_

William seems emboldened by Thomas’ admission of pleasure. He pulls his fingers out, slowly, carefully, and the slide sends another shiver through Thomas’ body. William turns his head towards Thomas leaning forward to press a hard kiss to his quivering lips. Thomas chases William’s tongue with his own, keening desperately forwards, feeling raw and vulnerable from William’s affections.

Turning his attentions downwards, William pushes Thomas’ legs further apart, settling himself between them. He moves his hips forwards, testing the position, then, obviously deciding it to be insufficient, reaches above Thomas’ head to grab a pillow, pushing that underneath the small of his lower back. The action is so utterly pedestrian, but it fills Thomas with emotion anew, feeling his chest swell with it. That William is here, with him, and he just knows exactly what to do, every touch so loving and tender that it makes Thomas choke up.

“I love you.” William states, as if they were his last words spoken before going into battle. And perhaps they are.

Lining himself up, William pushes into Thomas, slowly, and with such care that it is at least a minute before he is buried to the hilt. Thomas wants to say something, anything, but his voice fails him, every sensation and every thought centred on that spot where his and William’s body meet and become one. And then William begins to move, rocking his hips back and forth with painstaking caution.

There is a sharp twinge of pain, and William seems to notice it, because he stills, asks if he is hurting Thomas. And Thomas does not know how to reply, because telling the truth would mean revealing too much of himself and, besides, if William stopped he might leave again. After a beat of silence, William starts to withdraw himself, but Thomas shoots out an arm to stop him, grabbing his wrist between his fingers and squeezing _hard._

“No! Please don’t stop… Just a bit slower.” Thomas pleads, and William looks as if he might ignore the words, as if he has already made his mind up. But then Thomas licks his lips and surges upwards, crushing their mouths together, pushing his hips down to force William further inside of him again. William growls under his breath and the sound alone makes Thomas relax, letting his legs fall open a little wider.

William’s first proper thrust is a little awkward and unsure. His second is stronger, more deliberate. His third has them both sighing in pleasure, and William seems to find his rhythm then. He quickens his pace, one hand coming up to crush Thomas’ fingers within its clasp, pulling them high above Thomas’ head, the other grasping onto his hip bones for leverage. And with every snap of William’s hips, Thomas feels his heart split open, yawning like an immeasurable cavern, a blinding beam of light breaking through and burning him from the inside out. Bending down, William catches Thomas’ lips with a kiss, hot and wet and messy and open, a frantic clashing of tongues that would be unpleasant if Thomas were not being driven crazy by the deep slide of William’s cock inside of him. It is both too much and not enough.

And just when Thomas does not think he can take any more, William stops, just like that, pulling his cock out of Thomas with aching slowness, and that is just so much worse. Thomas watches as William fixes his gaze on the movement of his cock gliding, bit by bit, out of Thomas’ body. He seems mesmerised by it, eyes glazed over with lust and mouth open in a silent moan. And then he is pushing in again, still at that unbearably slow pace, eyes still fixed on the place where their bodies intersect.

“Please-“ Thomas gasps, not even knowing what he is pleading for. “I need… fuck. Just please fuck me.”

“Yeah?” William grins roguishly, but his brow is creased with concentration, sweat dripping into his eyes.

“YES.” Thomas cries, almost letting out a scream when William slams his hips forward again.

William sets a punishing pace after that, bracing his hands either side of Thomas’ head, caging him in, and then just fucking into him with such certainty it makes Thomas’ head spin. Every thrust inward pushes all the air from Thomas’ lungs, and with each retreating drag he gasps desperately for breath, feeling as though all the oxygen has left the room. William reaches down and takes Thomas’ cock in his hand, jerking him in time to his thrusts, and with embarrassment coiling in his stomach, Thomas realises that hot tears have started to spill down his cheeks, sobbing from the over-stimulation.

William kisses the silvery track marks of tears from Thomas’ cheeks, whispers sweet words into his ears that Thomas’ cannot quite make out through the haze of lust obscuring all his senses. Thomas feels as though he is trying to see the world through a flaw in a mirror, he knows what the shapes are, he just can’t grasp the details. Everything just zeroing in on each place on his body that William is touching him, as if he were nothing but an assemblage of William’s traces, a piece of evidence of his existence upon the earth.

William’s voice sounds like a hymn in Thomas’ head, the whole moment charged with a sacredness and a religiosity that Thomas has never experienced, not in church, nor when reading his damned psalter. If William’s cock is the idol Thomas has been waiting all his life for, he is all too happy to declare himself a pagan and fall to his feet in worship of its holy power. His Christian God has never done anything for him, certainly nothing like this.

With William’s hand wrapped around him, and half-formed thoughts of this new religion of his swirling around confusedly in his head, Thomas comes with a wordless cry, back arching off the bed. William follows soon after, pressing his open mouth into Thomas’ neck and biting down hard to suppress the moan that threatens to slip out.

Thomas can’t help the trembling that follows then, little shudders coursing throughout his whole body as his brain tries to catch up with what has just occurred. William holds him through it all, never relinquishing his grip, and when Thomas comes back to himself, he is relieved to see that William still looks exactly the same as he always has. He’s not sure what he was expecting, perhaps for some cataclysmic, life-changing event to occur that would render them transformed for all eternity.

But William is still just William, and Thomas is still just Thomas, two strangers wandering the wind-swept earth alone; that was not about to change just because they had shared in the honeys of love-making for a brief, fragile moment. The thought is comforting to Thomas, even though he considers himself a romantic. Some things just need to be stripped of their mystery, broken down to their bare essentials, so that they can be seen clearly, without the fog of clandestine idealism. To make strange their coitus for romantic effect would be doing it a disservice.

Taking William’s hand in his own, Thomas brings it to his lips, mouths over the knuckles with tender concentration. It is all he can do in that moment, not yet ready to meet William’s gaze. William slips his hand free of Thomas’ grip and uses it to turn his head, forcing their eyes upon the other.

“You okay?” William says, his tone soft and careful. Thomas nods, and then, all of a sudden, is overtaken by the desire to laugh.

“What?” William smiles, looking puzzled.

“Nothing.” Thomas chuckles. “It’s just… well, we just did that.”

“Sure…” William continues with a bemused tone. “I still don’t know why you’re laughing though.”

“I don’t know either, okay? Just let me be, my brain has gone to rot.” Thomas sighs, and William winds his arm underneath his shoulders, nestling in closer.

They fall quiet, the only sounds surrounding them the soft creaking of wooden beams in the wind, the tenuous crooning of birds just starting to wake up. William is so still and silent that Thomas would think he were asleep if it weren’t for the occasional sigh and soft squeeze of fingers into Thomas’ shoulder. Some ten minutes pass before either of them speak.

“That wasn’t what I expected.” Thomas ponders aloud, and William turns to face him, perching his head atop his hand.

“No?”

“No. Not from what I’ve heard from other people, other men. Just little snippets of information, I suppose, but that wasn’t what I envisioned at all.”

“Well, that wasn’t the normal way of doing it, Thomas.” William scoffs, and Thomas gives him a playful push.

“I know _that_. I just meant… I don’t feel any different, physically. The way I’ve heard other men go on about it, as if they hardly knew how to breathe until they stuck their cock in some poor, unsuspecting maiden.”

“I didn’t feel any different after my first time, how did you say it, sticking my cock in some poor, unsuspecting maiden?” William replies, reaching over to intertwine his fingers with Thomas’, as if offering an apology for having ever touched anyone else in that way.

“Is that what I am to you too?” Thomas asks, only half-teasing.

“Those were your words, not mine.”

“Am I?” Thomas repeats, insistent.

“No, Thomas. Not now, not ever.” William sighs, grimacing, as if the words bring him pain, as if they were tortured out of him.

“Well, then.” Thomas replies, not knowing how else to respond.

There is a moment’s silence.

“But… I mean… was it okay? Was I okay?” William stammers. Thomas turns his head to look at him, and William’s face is so open and honest and vulnerable in its nervousness that Thomas feels his heart break into a million pieces just from the sight.

“Not that I have anything to compare it to, but… yes, it was okay. More than okay.” Thomas leans in very close, letting his nose brush against William’s. “Perfect.”

William’s eyes flutter shut, keening forward to graze his lips over Thomas’, as if it were second nature to him. Thomas smiles into the kiss, reaching round to thread his fingers through William’s hair. When Thomas pulls away, William is staring at him with such adoration he might as well have invented the sun.

“I feel like the princess in some Arthurian legend.” Thomas laughs.

“Hmm?” William frowns, eyes still transfixed by Thomas’ face.

“I have ensnared my knight, and he is drowning me in devotion.”

“You think this is devotion? You have seen nothing yet, my love.” William chuckles, bringing a hand up to curl into the hair at Thomas’ nape.

“Well how else will you show it, then?” Thomas asks. William looks thoughtful for a moment, and then he suddenly sits bolt upright, spreading his arms wide. Thomas jumps a little at the abrupt movement.

“I would travel to the furthest margins of the world and bring you back wonders to rival even those recorded by Marco Polo himself.” William announces with a mischievous grin.

“Oh really? Like what?” Thomas queries, playing along.

“The body of a blemmye.”

“Hmm, what else?”

“The tooth of a basilisk.”

“Well, now.”

“And… and I would find the original Ark built by Noah, perched upon some snowy mountain top somewhere, and bring you back its sails to wear as a cloak!” William declares with such seriousness that Thomas descends into peals of laughter.

“You’re full of bullshit.” Thomas exclaims, his smile wide and easy.

“I would! Anything for you.” William protests, flopping back onto the bed and curling his body around Thomas’.

“I do not need souvenirs of your love, William. In fact, I need nothing material at all. I just need you, here, with me, forever. Can you promise me that?” Thomas asks, his voice serious again. William’s eyes grow kind and sentimental, and he reaches over to lay a hand on Thomas’ chest, right over his heart. Thomas holds his breath.

“I promise.”

*****************************************

The morning greets Thomas with a headache and an unmistakable fuzziness behind the eyes, alerting him to the fact that he obtained far fewer hours of sleep than his body would have liked. It is still early it seems, the light streaming through gaps in the window drapes still of that cold, blue quality of the hours that follow dawn.

Thomas blinks his eyes a few times and glances over to his left, his heart jumping with pleasure when he sees that William lies there, on his back with his hands crossed neatly over his bare chest. Thomas had been half expecting to wake up in an empty bed. The knight is awake too, his chest rising and falling with measured breaths, but though he must have sensed Thomas waking up, he does not turn his head, just continues to stare stubbornly upwards.

The moment is almost awkward, the both of them lying silently there, not knowing what to say. Thomas settles down again, mirroring William’s position and his upward gaze. He watches a spider crawling surreptitiously over the wooden beams for a few minutes, feeling himself beginning to drop off to sleep again. He lets his eyes fall shut, giving in to the wave of tiredness, just for a minute or so.

When Thomas wakes again, the room is imperceptibly warmer, and glowing with a faint golden light that suggests that at least an hour or two has passed by in the blink of an eye.

Thomas turns his head lazily, surveying William’s reclining form through half-shut eyelids. He really looks achingly beautiful, lying there, still as a statue and twice as lovely. Thomas reaches over to trace his fingertips languidly over the pale skin of William’s torso, his stomach fluttering slightly when touched. When Thomas brushes gently over the red, raw-looking scar from where he had been stabbed, William breathes in sharply, his muscles contracting automatically.

“Sorry.” Thomas mutters, quickly withdrawing his hand.

“No, it’s alright. Just sensitive is all.” William replies quietly, eyes still fixed resolutely to the ceiling.

Thomas swallows nervously, reaching a hand upwards to rest over William’s jaw.

“Look at me.” Thomas whispers, and William obliges. His face is a picture of uneasiness, eyes wide and worried and bottom lip bloody from his chewing upon it.

“Are you alright?” Thomas asks apprehensively, scared to hear the answer.

“Yes. I think so.” William smiles shakily.

“Good. Because I don’t think I would survive it if you told me that you regretted coming here last night.” Thomas says, trying to feign sarcasm but knowing that he is not being very convincing. William rolls his eyes in what Thomas has come to understand is fond exasperation.

“Don’t be over-dramatic.” William scoffs, his grin growing. “I’m just still in shock from having to listen to you snore all night.”

“I do not snore!” Thomas protests, shooting upright, suddenly very awake. William laughs, loud and warm.

“No, you don’t.” William concedes with a smile. “Actually, you’re beautiful when you sleep. Peaceful.”

Thomas is caught off guard by the intimacy of the admission, his cheeks suddenly burning, and his words caught in his throat. He scolds himself internally. How is it possible that he can have William’s cock inside of him and not bat an eyelid, and yet he is reduced to this wobbly mess just by his words?

William seems to take pity on him, because he leans forward and presses a kiss to his cheek, running a hand through his tangled hair.

“Of course I don’t regret last night.” William whispers, placing another kiss closer to the edge of Thomas’ mouth. Thomas turns his head, forcing their lips to connect, sticking his tongue deep into William’s mouth just to hear him moan around it. It is a dirty trick, but it achieves what Thomas had wanted, namely William, breathless and quivering, rutting desperately against him.

“I should go.” William gasps after a while but making no movement to suggest leaving.

“Mmhmm.” Thomas murmurs into William’s neck.

“I really need to leave.” William says again, feebly trying to detach himself from Thomas.

“Of course.” Thomas agrees, shimmying down William’s body to suck a bruise into the skin below his collar bone.

“Seriously, Smith will probably already have noticed my absence.” William whines. “We have to be mature about this.” His stern tone is slightly negated by the frantic rutting of his hips upwards into Thomas’.

Thomas sighs and sits up, extricating his limbs.

“Why’d you stop?” William asks accusingly, his face a picture of disappointment.

“You’re ridiculous.” Thomas laughs, and William has the good sense to look embarrassed.

William climbs out of bed with a groan, retrieving his clothes from where they had been absent-mindedly strewn across the floor. He dresses quickly, Thomas watching from the bed with unashamed appreciation. Once ready he circles back, gives Thomas a quick kiss, and then makes his way back across the room.

“William?” Thomas calls. William stops by the door, turning his head and quirking an eyebrow.

“Yes?”

“Thank you for staying.” Thomas says, his voice soft.  
  


“It was definitely more comfortable than the kitchen floor.” William shrugs, his eyes mischievous.

“Oh, was it really?” Thomas laughs, crossing his arms. “Was that the true purpose of your seduction, William: the irresistible promise of a cushioned mattress?”

“Only partly.” William grins and darts out of the room before Thomas can chuck a pillow at him.

*****************************************

It seems that Thomas misjudged the metamorphosis, or lack thereof, that occurs after making love for the first time. Because, in so many words, Thomas _does _feel different. For starters, it hurts: it hurts to sit down, it hurts to walk, even standing up Thomas is sometimes greeted with a sharp twinge of pain that reminds him all too readily of the night before. And though it is not a bad kind of pain, not really, its existence alone is alien enough to leave Thomas feeling on edge and irritable, especially paired with the effects that a lack of sleep will give you.

More than the corporeal effects, though, there is something else that gives Thomas pause, some ghostly presence of a change he feels deep within his bones. Nothing physical, only the awareness that something inside of him, which he never knew even existed, has suddenly taken on a new form; just as you cannot imagine the smell of the earth until a rainfall has come to make it fragrant. Thomas concedes that it is most likely placebo, a yearning for some psychological transformation, a before and after. Not because Thomas wants there to be, but because it would seem only right. There is surely a difference between merely being in love and consummating it, and therefore that difference should have material significance.

The day passes excruciatingly slowly, especially with the awareness of what could, possibly, be waiting for Thomas later that night. And though William tails him, as usual, they do not communicate much besides the occasional pointed stare and easy brush of fingers over the other’s arm when no one else is looking. Thomas would have liked to spend every hour in this way, making love to William with his eyes and intermittent touches, but he has business to attend to with the Duke of Northumberland, namely the finalising of his father’s damned public records.

They wile away the afternoon at Leslie’s desk, in his cramped, smoky chambers. And though William keeps watch outside, Thomas feels as though he can sense his presence through the thick wooden door, drawn to each other like two magnetic lodestones. Leslie tries to pull him into conversation, but Thomas is too distracted to be of particularly good company, every one of his movement’s drawing attention to the remnants of William’s heat inside of him until he can relive the whole night by just shifting in his seat.

He retires to bed early that night, straight after supper, despite Leslie’s feeble suggestions of after-dinner entertainment. He knows he is proving himself to be a terrible guest, but he cannot help his absent-mindedness, not when he has such graphic ideas of how he would rather be spending the entirety of his time. He undresses quickly, slipping beneath the ice-cold sheets with agitated anticipation, waiting, just waiting for something to happen.

They didn’t discuss it, they didn’t plan anything, and yet when the unmistakeable sound of a latch being lifted and a door creaking open and furtive footsteps crossing the threshold comes Thomas doesn’t even need to look over to know that it is William. It is only when the bed dips down and the covers are pulled back that Thomas lets their eyes meet in the flickering candlelight, a silent conversation of irises: William asks and Thomas answers, _yes, yes, it will always be yes._ No words need to be uttered, they both know why they are there, and what they are risking with this union. Neither of them cares.

And then there is nothing to it but the rhythmic stirring of sweat-slicked bodies, legs tangled in the bed sheets, hearts tangled in the air above them. They hurtle towards an inevitability.

A thousand litanies are spoken into the silence: _I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you... _By himself or by William, Thomas does not know, but either way it does not matter, for the words are for both of them, a heavenly chorus that binds them together by a golden thread of longing. Thomas can sense William’s rage, his desperation, can feel it moving inside of him, but the thought only sends him further into a sweet oblivion. Because Thomas is angry too, angry at William for making him feel this way, angry at the world for painting their love as something wrong or distasteful. William’s arms are a good place to vent his fury, his skin a good surface to scream into.

And then, for a split-second, they are poised on the edge of falling apart, and Thomas lives an infinite number of lifetimes in that short moment. Birthed and killed and reborn again by the feeling of William’s teeth biting into the flesh of his clavicle, his fingers digging into Thomas’ ribs, as if he might fall to his death if he were to relinquish his grip. When William comes inside him with a cry, Thomas knows that he has lost, the instant already dwindling away into a distant memory. And then they succumb immediately to a deep slumber, only for Thomas to be woken up a few hours later by William’s panicked thrashing, shaken by a nightmare.

“I smelt smoke.” William mutters, half-asleep, and Thomas does not ask. He just holds him through the racking breaths, strokes his hair back off his face, kisses his clammy forehead with insistent affection, and tries to find sleep again.

In the morning, there is nothing left but the smell of sex in the air and a cluster of violet bruises marring the skin of Thomas’ hips, like faded pansy blossoms scattered over a clean white page. Thomas reaches down to run his fingertips over the painterly marks, smiling absent-mindedly. He wishes he could keep the bruises etched into his skin forever; a reminder of the night before, a souvenir of William’s rough affections, how every kiss had been a desperate ravaging of teeth, every touch just the right side of too hard. Even his eyes had held a fire that almost burned Thomas to look at, like staring directly into the sun.

William follows Thomas’ gaze downwards and frowns. He replaces Thomas’ hands on his hip bones with his own, his touch so gentle it almost feels like an apology.

“I was too physical with you. I’m sorry.” William whispers, his eyes downcast with shame. Thomas lifts William’s head to take in his face, forcing their gazes to meet.

“Don’t apologize, it was perfect.” Thomas insists, pulling the bed sheets up to cover his hips.

“Did I hurt you?” William asks, his face a picture of concern, and Thomas shakes his head in response.

“If I didn’t like it I would have stopped you, trust me.” Thomas scoffs. “You seem to think I’m some delicate flower incapable of defending myself or my honour. But I think I could take you in a duel, Sir William.”

William rolls his eyes, a small smile breaking through the gloom.

“Is that so? Why don’t we try right now, then?” William challenges, raising himself up onto his knees.

“I don’t want to fight you,” Thomas says, his tone suddenly serious, “I just want to fuck.”

There is a beat of silence, and then they are both bursting into laughter, hysterical at the ridiculousness of Thomas’ statement.

“You have quite a way with words, Thomas.” William grins, after calming down slightly and wiping tears from his eyes.

“Yes, well, at least I got you to laugh.” Thomas smiles fondly, reaching up to pull William down on top of him, who settles himself between Thomas’ legs. Thomas presses his groin upwards into William’s, but the movement is not frantic, simply done to illicit a shiver of pleasure from the knight, simply because he can. It doesn’t lead to anything, it doesn’t have to.

Rising from bed takes longer than usual that morning, as soon as either of them try to get the other going, they are just as easily pulled in for more kisses, more fevered touches, more, more, more. Time stretches, and then catches up to them, and they don’t realise how many hours have past whilst they have been engrossed in their perfect bubble. William doesn’t have time to return to what was supposed to be his sleeping quarters, and, for that reason, they leave Thomas’ bed chambers together, not bothering to split up, too buoyed by the sweetness of each other’s love to think straight. They walk slowly through the castle, connected by their elbows, which bump together every now and then. Thomas’ hand itches where he wishes to reach out and grab William’s, wanting to have this small token of their affections but knowing even the thought to be madness. He settles for those short-lived elbow brushes; surely they should be enough for him?

They aren’t. 

Thomas waits until they reach a particularly deserted, shadowy stretch of corridor and then he is pushing William up against the wall, crowding into his space and pressing desperate kisses to his mouth.

“Not here!” William hisses, flinching away.

“Why not? No one can see us.” Thomas shrugs, pulling William towards him again until he finally relents into the kiss.

Famous last words.

“Ahem.” The sound of someone clearing their throat behind them has Thomas jumping in his skin. He darts away from William, spinning around so fast that he gets whiplash. Leslie is stood a few feet away, alone, with an amused smile flickering over his lips and one eyebrow raised so high it nearly disappears into his hairline.

“What do we have here then?” He smirks, crossing his arms over his chest in mock chastisement.

“Oh god… This-this isn’t what it looks like…” Thomas stammers, feeling the blood drain from his face.

“Really? Because it _looks_ like you two were about to start copulating on that nice tapestry over there.”

“No that’s not-“ Thomas begins, his voice shaking slightly.

“No? Hmm, strange. So, what were you doing then?”

Neither of them has an acceptable answer for the Duke, so they just stay silent.

“Just as I thought” Leslie chuckles. “But you needn’t look so scared, the both of you. Do you think you’re the only ones who enjoy a bit of buggery every now and then?”

“You mean…”

“It means exactly what you think it means, Lord Windsor.” Leslie takes a step a closer, lowering his voice and bringing a finger up to his lips. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

“Oh… okay. That’s… yes, that’s fine.” Thomas’ words come out in a harsh exhaling of air, his heart beating so hard he can feel it pounding in his eardrums.

“Well off you go, then.” Leslie says with a wave of his hand. “Oh! And next time, I suggest a more private setting, boys. Cheerio!” He turns on his heel and marches off down the corridor, leaving William and Thomas standing there with open mouths.

William moves first. He staggers away from Thomas, shooting an arm out to brace himself against the wall. He takes deep, heaving breaths, his chest rising and falling in a panicked staccato. His eyes are darting around restlessly, and his face is so white that Thomas worries for a second that he might faint.

“William…” Thomas says cautiously, but the knight does not look up. He pushes himself off the wall, and then he is striding away, shaky on his feet, back in the direction of Thomas’ chambers. Thomas has to run to catch up with him.

“William, please just look at me.” William does not gratify his request.

“I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have done that, it was dangerous and stupid and I feel terrible, but I won’t do it again.” Thomas gasps out, his voice pleading.

“You heard Leslie, he’s not going to tell anyone! We’ll be fine, we’ll be-“

“You don’t know that!” William all but screams, spinning round to face Thomas, a raging fire in his eyes that Thomas has never seen before. He cowers away from it automatically, feeling a lump rise in his throat.

William turns back around slowly, continuing onwards with less hurry, but just as much furious purpose. Thomas does not speak again, not until they reach his chambers, not until William begins scouring the room for his scattered belongings from their nights spent in it, picking up a discarded cloak here, a lone glove there.

“What are you doing?” Thomas asks, already guessing the answer, but still dreading it.

“Packing my things.” William says, simply, pointedly not looking at Thomas.

“Why?” Thomas’ voice breaks with emotion.

“I’m leaving.”

Thomas’ legs give way, and he crumples onto the bed, his heart seizing in his chest.

“No…” He begins weakly. “No, you can’t.” William stills his movements, glancing round to look at Thomas and then looking away just as quickly, as if the sight of him burns his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Thomas.”

“No, you’re not. You can’t apologize before you even do the thing you’re sorry for, that just completely negates the whole fucking…” Thomas’ voice breaks away, too overwhelmed to continue. He takes a deep breath and brings a hand up to his temple where a migraine has bloomed suddenly. “Why are you doing this? Leslie just admitted that he’s… well he’s like us, he wouldn’t do that if he had any intention of reporting it.”

“So we got lucky, so what? Not everyone will be like Leslie, we cannot take the risk.” William scoffs, his voice as hard and cold as iron. Thomas tries a different tactic.

“I know that you’re scared, I’m scared too, but you don’t have to leave.”

“Yes. I. Do. I promised myself I would never act on these urges, that I would never give in to my… affliction. And then you came along, and you ruined everything. You ruined me. It’s already been made abundantly clear that I am unable to resist you and so I have to take away the temptation. I have to go.” William resumes his packing.

“No, William, please-“ Thomas exclaims, trying to catch William’s arm, trying to halt his movements.

“I was always going to leave, Thomas.” Williams says very quietly, and Thomas falters, staggering away.

“What?”

“I knew I would have to leave after this trip ended. I knew I had to get away from you so that I wouldn’t have a chance to act on my desires.” William huffs out a bitter laugh. “Well, it’s too late now. I’ve already done too much. Which is why it has to be now.”

“And what if I ordered you to stay? What if I told you, as your Lord, that I do not sanction your departure.” Thomas all but shouts the words, and William snaps his head round in shock, staring at Thomas with wild eyes. But then he relaxes, shrugging his shoulders.

“I know you, Thomas, better than anyone, and I know that you wouldn’t do that.” William says simply.

“And I know you. I know that you’re a liar. You promised that you would never leave me. I should’ve known. This is how you deal with things, isn’t it? When the going gets tough, you run away. You give up.”

William sighs and shakes his head. He looks wretched, split between two opposing desires, twisting his hands anxiously in front of him. He walks slowly over to where the fire crackles ominously in its hearth and takes a seat on the chaise lounge beside it. There is a long moment of silence as Thomas waits for William to speak.

“When I was ten years old I attended my first execution.” William says finally. It is not what Thomas was expecting him to come out with, but he stays silent, patiently waiting. “The knight I was squire to said it would help me gain a thicker skin, prepare me for a life of fighting, prevent me from stepping out of line. This man, no… this boy, barely older than you are now, had been found guilty of Crimes against Natural Law. I didn’t know what that meant at the time, not exactly, I just knew that it was bad, worse than stealing or blasphemy or, hell, even murder in some people’s eyes. They brought him out into the castle courtyard and stripped him, in front of the whole crowd, and I’ll never forget the sight. Because where his manhood should have been there was nothing but a bloody wound. He didn’t even try to cover himself; no dignity left to protect so what would be the point? They took rope and tied his hands behind his back and his body to a pole. And then they set him alight... You know, at burnings I’ve been to since, the family of the accused will invariably be waiting for the first spark, waiting to pile as much firewood onto the flames as possible so their loved one does not have to suffer as long. So that they burn quicker or pass out from the smoke before their flesh begins to melt. Not here. I watched as that boy’s mother laughed in her son’s face, laughed as he screamed out in agony. He was an embarrassment to the family name and she wanted him to die, she wanted him to suffer.”

“I-“ Thomas starts, but William interrupts him.

“I still have nightmares about that boy, have done ever since I first realised I was different, ever since I first realised I was exactly like him. Even though I can no longer remember his face, I still hear his screams.” William takes a deep, fortifying breath. “And recently, those dreams have changed, the boy has changed. Now it is you who is fastened to that pole, Thomas. It is you who begs your mother for mercy as she laughs in your face. And I can do nothing but watch as your skin turns black and blistered. As you burn and burn and burn until there is nothing left of you but a pile of ash and a voice crying out for a reprieve that never comes.” William has gone very pale, the skin of his face white and waxen in the flickering light of the fire.

“William…” Thomas says gently, laying his hand over the knight’s shoulder, attempting to soothe him. William turns to look at Thomas, his eyes pleading.

“Why can’t you see that this is the fate I am trying to protect us from? I was given a duty to save your life, Thomas. Well, this is me following through.”

“And why can’t _you _see that I don’t care. I have no want or need of a life that does not have you in it.” Thomas insists, and William scoffs bitterly and looks away, back into the depths of the fire.

“You are painfully stubborn.”

“No. I’m just in love with you.”

“If you really loved me you would do anything to prevent me befalling the same fate as that boy, and if we continue in this way I will be burned. Or hung. Or beheaded. Or any other means of execution that seeks to rid this earth of the creatures who defy God’s law. We both will.” William snaps.

“I can’t live without you.” Thomas says, his voice very quiet and his eyes filling with tears.

“You lived in perfect happiness for nineteen years before I came along, and you will continue to live after I am gone. It is the only way.” William draws closer to Thomas, his eyes softening and his hands coming up to wipe away the teardrops that stream down his own face. “I will never forget you, Thomas, nor this love we shared. If you think that I am doing this to hurt you, or because I do not feel as deeply or as desperately as you do, then you are wrong. I just can’t be the one to destroy you, I’ve done enough damage already.”

William reaches down to fiddle with the pinkie finger of his left hand for a moment, and then he is placing something small and solid into Thomas’ palm, forcing his fingers to close around it.

“I want you to have my signet ring. Please, just take it. It will be a comfort to know you’ll always carry a part of me around with you. Even when I’m gone.”

Thomas cannot help the anger that fills him then, a violent, blazing fire of rage. He scoffs and wrenches his hand from William’s grip.

“I have no use of trinkets, William, especially one that only reminds me of what I have lost.” Thomas hisses, but he pockets the ring all the same.

“I need you to know that this is not your fault, none of it is. I am to blame for everything that has happened and I’m just sorry I dragged you into this.” William whispers, leaning in to rest his forehead on Thomas’.

“There is nothing we have done that requires blame, William.” Thomas sighs, resigned, tired, so goddamn tired. “I am not ashamed to love you, why are you ashamed to love me?”

“I’m not, I promise I’m not. You’ve made me happier than I’ve ever been in my entire life.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I know.” William says simply. Leaning forward, he presses one final kiss to Thomas’ mouth, a wistful brushing of lips that tastes only of salty tears and goodbyes. And then he cups Thomas’ cheek, runs his other hand through Thomas’ hair, down over his neck and over his spine, as if trying to absorb the very feeling of him. As if Thomas were a devotional statue that pilgrims fought over just to touch with begging palms, just to be imbued with apotropaic energy.

And then William leaves, and Thomas is not surprised. All William has done since they met is run away. From his feelings, from his duties, and now from Thomas himself and _how dare he_? How dare he just arrive in Thomas’ life and burden him with his love and then snatch it away so readily?

And Thomas should be angry, but he isn’t. He should feel betrayed, enraged, devastated, but there is just an emptiness inside of him now. A hollow ache where his heart used to be. William took all the air in the room when he left it, and all Thomas can do is slowly suffocate, watch quietly from above as the life drains from his body like blood from a sacrificial lamb. It is a long time before he leaves his chambers again, not that he was successful in collecting himself in the time in between. But he buckles up, goes to find the Duke, puts on a brave face, doesn’t let his sorrow show.

And for the following few days, Thomas finds himself just going through the motions of survival. Not really living, just breathing. Except even that is an effort. What makes it worse is that Leslie seems to think it helpful to offer snide little comments under the pretence of advice that only sends razor-sharp reminders through Thomas of his loss.

The fourth time it happens, they are sitting in Leslie’s chambers. Thomas is staring forlornly out of the window, a pitiful sigh escaping his lips every few minutes or so. He knows that he is being melodramatic, but it almost helps.

“Young love, huh?” Leslie states, startling Thomas from his reverie. He looks to him for a second, and then turns back to the window, stubborn.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course not.” Leslie mimes locking his lips closed and hen throwing the key over his shoulder. Thomas feels his blood beginning to boil, rage filling his entire being. He rounds on the Duke.

“This is no laughing matter! If you weren’t… what you are, William and I would be having our bollocks sliced off at this very moment.”

“Lord Windsor, do you really think I could’ve survived all this time being ‘what I am’ if I didn’t take matters of this nature seriously?” Leslie says, raising an eyebrow.

Thomas does not reply, his hands still shaking with anger and frustration at this whole, wretched situation.

“You need to lighten up! Everyone always believes their first love to be their last. Now let me tell you a secret: that is very rarely true.” Leslie gives Thomas an encouraging slap on his back.

“It’s because of you that he’s gone.” Thomas says quietly, his voice tinged with a dangerous edge. Leslie fixes him with a long, hard stare, and then he sighs.

“We both know you don’t really believe that.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Now I don’t know the exact minutiae of the situation, but I’ll tell you one thing for free: if you believed it to be as simple as that, you’d never have let him go. No. Deep down, there is some small part of you that agrees with him. And that’s the worst part, isn’t it?” Thomas does not reply so Leslie goes on. “If you ask me, that knight of yours has his head screwed on right. At least one of you does.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, if you’d continued the way you had, you’d be having a lot more than just your bollocks sliced off.” Leslie laughs humourlessly. “You know the only way to survive with this… predicament is to never get attached. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket, keep em’ moving along.”

“That sounds lonely.” Thomas says and Leslie frowns, looking away.

“Yes, well I’d rather keep my head on my shoulders than conform to some childish notion of romantic fulfilment.”

There is a moment of silence, and then Leslie is laying a hand over Thomas’ back in perhaps what is supposed to be a comforting gesture.

“You’ll get used to it.”

“And what if I don’t want to?” Thomas responds quickly.

“Gosh, you’re a tricky one, aren’t you?” The Duke chuckles to himself for a minute or so, then schools his features into a more serious expression. “Well, in that case, and I am certainly not recommending this as the best course of action, you’ll just have to go get him, won’t you?”

Thomas turns to look out of the window again, watches as a kestrel comes swooping out of the distant tree line and towards the castle, a bronze blur in the late afternoon sunshine. His next words are addressed more to that bird, an animated manifestation of his desire to fly away from this place and towards William, than they are to Leslie.

“Yes… I suppose I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhh… the angst!!!! Only one chapter left, will Will and Tom get their happy ending? You’ll have to wait to find out hehehe.  
I realise now that the primary personality trait I’ve given Will is a penchant for running away from things… But it’s not my fault he spends like 80% of the movie running too! 
> 
> The story of that guy getting down and dirty with his pillow is a real medieval romance: the tale of Guillaume and Melior from the early 13th century. And it involves a werewolf and pining, and an elopement and good fun had by all! Kinda like a lot of fanfiction written nowadays, huh?
> 
> A blemmye was part of a mythical race of headless men believed in the Middle Ages to live on the very edges of the earth. Margins and liminal spaces were seen as very dangerous, mercurial spaces due to their dual nature. For example, magic spells were supposedly more powerful if performed under a doorway. Therefore the ‘edges’ of the earth, e.g. the farthest places away from the ‘centre’ (Jerusalem) were equally mysterious. Other creatures believed to live there were sciapods (one-legged humans with huge feet that they would hold over their heads to shield themselves from the sun) and dog-headed men. The whole idea is all rooted in racist fear-mongering, but it is still very interesting to study. You can see depictions of the so-called ‘monstrous races’ in a lot of medieval mappa mundi (world maps), which were certainly never used for actual travel directions or geographic accuracy, but as a concise way to depict the world as it was designed by God. The Ebstorf Map or The Hereford Mappa Mundi are two very good examples if anyone is interested.
> 
> Also, in relation to Leslie… I mean, what was I gonna do, make Andrew Scott’s character fukin straight??!! Lol, not even Phoebe Waller-Bridge can convince me that this man has a single heterosexual bone in his body (but I admit she came fukin close, forever shipping Fleabag and Hot Priest). 
> 
> I feel like Will’s freak out is actually pretty accurate, the punishments for homosexuality were really that gruesome in the Middle Ages (depending on how high up in society you were and especially how many times you were caught doing the deed. You probably wouldn’t be put to death for just one recorded instance of sodomy, but you were very likely to be castrated or dismembered in some other way). Yikes. You can thank Thomas Aquinas for that.
> 
> Thanks again for all the comments and kudos and for being patient with me, I hope this fic is providing some kind of comfort or escapism for you all in these troubling times, it certainly is for me. 
> 
> P.S. all your lovely feedback is literally the only thing keeping me from going full on rabid in my self-isolation so keep it coming, people!
> 
> P.P.S. you don’t have to leave feedback if you don’t want to, it just makes me happy is all! Okay, I’ll go now.


	6. Summertime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is really late, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!! (But is it not kinda perfect that I’m posting the denouement to this story on the 6th April?? No??? Just me? Ok then.)
> 
> @topaziumm and @birb-boy have both posted the most amazing art on tumblr inspired by this fic please go follow them!!!!!
> 
> [birb-boy-fan-art](https://birb-boy.tumblr.com/post/613589777808228352/everyone-go-read-if-gold-rust-what-shall-iron-do)
> 
> [topaziumm-fan-art](https://topaziumm.tumblr.com/post/616093894942359552/inspired-by-the-fic-if-gold-rust-what-shall)

However much Thomas found Leslie’s constant badgering to be a nuisance, he certainly misses it once he leaves Alnwick. At least there he had had somebody to confide in, somebody to shoulder some of the pain. And the pain is certainly great, immeasurable, unending. He doesn’t sleep for the remaining three nights at Alnwick, what with William’s scent pressed into the bed sheets, and so he should feel relieved to be leaving it behind. But the monotony of the week-long journey to Hedingham Castle turns out to be even worse, with nothing to distract Thomas from every razor-sharp reminder of William that floats into his mind without warning. 

He passes the time by turning William’s gold signet ring over and over again between his fingers, a constant, cyclical repetition that is almost soothing. Almost.

By the end of the journey, Thomas reckons that he could draw the Schofield family crest, a stag surrounded on all sides by four thorned roses, just from the touch memory of pushing his fingertips into its grooves. And if he presses the ring into the fleshy part of his palm, the spot just below his thumb, he can just about imprint a ghostly impression of the crest into his skin. That makes him feel better, right up until the point in which it makes him feel worse, in which it becomes too painful to have a part of William etched into him when the man himself is nowhere to be found.

But the journey itself is pleasant enough, going by without a hitch, with magnificent weather shining down upon the travelling party like a blessing. Thomas would have preferred it to rain every day, the dazzling sunshine only adding insult to injury with its gloating rays. And the beautiful weather only continues through their time at Hedingham, and after, as they press on to Westminster. To Thomas’ utmost annoyance, he finds the spectacle of London to be as truly beautiful in the glow of early summer as he had remembered. From a distance, the rabble of wood dwellings swim together to form a pleasing mosaic over the green countryside, the Thames glitters and winks enticingly as they approach it, having not yet become stinking and putrid from three months of baking in the sun, and the Palace of Westminster rises up from its northern banks like a mirage, with Westminster Abbey peeking its perfectly sculpted face out from just behind the royal residence.

Thomas should feel buoyed by the prospect of returning to the place where he grew up, this stone monolith saturated with the memories of his childhood, but with every tread of horse’s hooves that brings them closer to the Palace, Thomas feels a weight descending onto his chest. He doesn’t want to face his father, not with this raw heartache that has made him weak. His father does not like weakness.

And they arrive in good time, before noon, so Thomas does not even have the excuse to rest before meeting with the King. He tries his best to stall, asking to stop the carriage before they cross the river, so they can admire the view of London; getting into conversation with the knights stationed at the Palace gateway; even offering to help hitch up the horses, before being sent away by a scandalised Smith, shocked by the prospect of the King’s son partaking in the duties of a lowly stable boy.

A couple of guards try to show Thomas the way to the Hall, but he waves them off, stating that he did actually live in the Palace for the first nineteen years of his life, thank you very much. They scuttle away, looking embarrassed, and Thomas has the good nature to feel guilty. He hadn’t meant to snap at them, they were only doing what they were told, but, at present, his nerves are completely frayed and his temper bubbles hot and close to the surface.

Thomas is dragging his feet over the flagstones, stealing himself before entering the Hall, when he hears a shout from behind him.

“Tommy!”

Thomas turns around, heart filling with warmth when he spots his brother, Joseph, striding down the corridor towards him. Thomas hurries to meet him halfway, pulling him into a tight embrace.

“Joe.” Thomas breathes into Joseph’s shoulder, not realising how much he’d missed his brother until now. Joseph pulls away to grin at Thomas, eyes sweeping over his face.

“It’s been too long, I missed you.” Joseph states, and Thomas nods in agreement.

“I know, me too.” Thomas replies, pulling Joseph into another, shorter, hug.

“So, what news of Windsor? What is it like to be the Lord of your very own castle?” Joseph grins, only half-teasing. Thomas thinks about extrapolating on the truth, spinning tales of danger and excitement to impress his older brother with.

“To tell you the truth, it’s rather boring.” Thomas admits with a sigh, after deciding that he is too tired to be spinning anything.

“Well what did you expect? Banquets and masquerades and a peasant’s revolt or two every weekend?” Joseph laughs.

“No.” Thomas replies pointedly. “But I thought there might be less paperwork.”

“Ah, paperwork! The true enemy of any Lord. But what of that assassin? That must have brought a little flavour to the mundanities of everyday life, surely?”

Thomas fixes Joseph with a disapproving glare.

“An attempt against my life is not what I would class as excitement, Joe.” Thomas replies curtly, and Joseph seems to recognise his blunder, because his expression suddenly becomes sheepish.

“No, you’re right. That was a foolish thing to say, I’m sorry.” Joseph says in an earnest tone.

“It’s alright. All is forgiven.” Thomas smiles, and Joseph looks a little relieved.

“You know, you look different, Tommy.” Joseph appraises, giving Thomas a pat on his shoulder.

“In what way?” Thomas asks, frowning.

“As if you’ve finally become a man in these months since I saw you last.” Joseph teases, and Thomas rolls his eyes, giving Joseph a playful punch in his arm. Joseph pretends to be mortally wounded, clutching his arm and crying out, before descending into fond chuckles. And then his expression suddenly turns serious. “But…”

“What is it?” Thomas asks, apprehensive. Joseph looks thoughtful for a moment, as if he is trying to find the right words.

“I’m not sure. It is just… you look sad, Tommy, your eyes are all serious now where they were once filled with joy, even though I can tell you are trying to hide it.” Joseph says, his voice soft and concerned.

Thomas looks away, sighing.

“That’s not an entirely unfair assessment to make.”

“What is causing you pain, Tommy? Is it the assassination attempt?” Joseph draws closer to Thomas, lowering his voice. Thomas huffs out a small laugh and shakes his head.

“No, it’s not that.”

“What then? What happened to you?” Joseph presses, his voice becoming more urgent.

“I suppose, in a manner of speaking … love.” Thomas says very slowly, not meeting Joseph’s eyes. Joseph pulls away, looking confused.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve fallen in love, Joe, and that is what is causing me pain.” The words sound melodramatic even to Thomas’ own ears, and he cringes slightly.

Joseph tilts his head slightly, considering, the puzzled expression on his face slowly dissipating into a knowing smile.

“Love?” He grins, and Thomas nods, not returning Joseph’s cheery sentiment.

“Yes.”

“Look at you, Tommy! All grown up!” Joseph laughs, reaching over to ruffle Thomas’ hair. Thomas flinches away from it, but he can’t help the small smile that spreads over his lips, Joseph’s sunny disposition always too warm and bright to resist. “Well, you can tell me about her later, ok? But right now, father is waiting for us.”

Thomas winces, that small pronoun Joseph had so easily let fall from his lips like a knife to his heart, a reminder of his hopeless situation. Joseph strides off and Thomas follows wordlessly behind, his body feeling as heavy as lead.

Upon entering the hall, Thomas is shocked by the crushing silence. The King sits alone at the far end on his wooden throne, and it takes a long time for them to make their way towards him, each footstep ringing out with a deafening echo. Knowing his father, Thomas is sure that he designed this particular aspect of their meeting specially to instil further trepidation into his son’s heart, the long walk doing little to calm his nerves. When he draws close, Thomas lowers himself to his knees and the King reaches a hand out for him to kiss.

“Your Majesty.” Thomas mutters by way of a greeting, getting to his feet again and crossing his arms behind his back, just so they do not hang limply by his sides.

“Thomas.” The King replies curtly.

“I take it you are of good health?” Thomas states, unable to meet his father’s eye, who gives a nod of response.

“And I take it you have completed those records I asked you to collate?” The King asks.

“Yes, father.”

“How is everything in the counties? All running smoothly?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Any glaring discrepancies you wish to report?”

“No, no, everything seems to be in order.”

“And what of Warwick? Everything in order there as well?”

“Yes, father. The Earl sends his regards.”

“I know. I received a letter from Mackenzie just days after your departure from his household.” The King says with a casual inflection, but Thomas can sense the danger lurking underneath. His heart sinks.

“Oh, really?” Thomas asks, trying to sound nonchalant but failing.

“Oh yes. But, I must say, I was rather surprised to hear of your refusal to marry his daughter.”

Thomas lets out a shaking breath.

“Could you tell me what drove you to that decision, Thomas?” His father continues, voice purposefully level and disinterested, as if they were only talking about the weather.

“I did not deem us suited to be husband and wife.”

“I see. And what made you think you were allowed an opinion on the matter?” The King’s voice rises in pitch, his anger finally starting to show through.

“I just thought-“ Thomas begins, but his father interrupts him.

“What made you think you could go against my wishes?” The King spits out, having lost all of his composure.

“Father, I-“

“It would have been so easy to marry her, to just do as you were told, Thomas. What could have possibly prevented you from doing so?” 

“I will marry her, then, if that is what you wish! I will write to Mackenzie and ask for her hand once again.” Thomas cries, the words slightly muffled with his haste to get them out.

“Ah, but it is too late, Thomas.” The King sneers. “Lady Isolde is already betrothed to another man and, even if she weren’t, I doubt the Earl would so readily offer up his daughter again, not now he has been so gravely insulted.”

“I did not mean for any insult to be felt! I was doing both Isolde and myself a favour when I declined the match. Her heart belongs to someone else.”

“The Earl cares little of the matters of his daughter’s heart, and neither do I. That marriage was a carefully constructed political manoeuvre to maintain order in the Midlands, a manoeuvre that has been planned since your birth, Thomas! And then you went and ruined the entire thing, without a second thought to the seriousness of your actions. What if Mackenzie is so affronted by your stupidity that he decides to stage a coup? What then? Will you be the one to go charging into battle to protect the continuation of your lineage?”

“If it comes to that, then yes, of course I would fight to defend your honour, Father.”

“Pah! Do not make me laugh, Thomas. I’d have better luck asking your mother to lead a battalion in my name than _you_.”

Thomas feels a mortified rage starting to filter through him.

“Father, I am not the weak little boy you think I am.” He hisses, curling his hands into fists.

“No. You are worse. You are a weak little man. But maybe if that damned cupbearer had done his job right, you wouldn’t be.”

It takes Thomas a second or two to discern who his father is referring to, and then he is reminded, with a nasty shock, of Robert Neville, his assassin.

“You mean if he’d killed me, father?” Thomas asks with incredulity, his voice shaking with emotion.

“No. I mean if he’d done what I asked him to.”

Thomas recoils with a jerk, his hand coming up to his mouth. He can hear his blood thundering in his ears, his whole being vibrating with shock, his father’s words echoing round and round in his head like a twisted Benedictine chant.

“Done what… _you _asked? But-but…” Thomas stutters, the words not coming out right. His father sighs with exasperation.

“Come now, Thomas. Did you really believe that someone would make the effort to try to kill you? You’re nothing. You’re not even the heir. Who would bother to assassinate you?” The King says with a laugh, and the sound sends a chill through him.

“But… he _did _try to kill me. He had a knife and…”

“Yes, well, it seems he got a bit carried away with that part. He was never meant to kill you. He was only supposed to scare you a bit, give you a little taste of danger. And then you would exercise your newly-learned strength and fortitude and have him sent to the dungeons for questioning by which time I’d have already choreographed his escape. You’d be more resilient because of it, and the whole county would admire your bravery! Two birds with one stone. But then that bloody knight had to go and stick his sword in places it shouldn’t be stuck and spoil the whole operation. And you’ve come out the other side even more childish and stupid than before!”

Thomas shakes his head, not wanting to believe what his father is saying.

“This is madness! Why did you think that would ever work?” He exclaims, taking a step closer to the King’s seated form.

“Well, I had to do something!” His father replies with a shout, leaning forward. “You are weak! A sorry excuse for a son and an even sorrier excuse for a man.”

“You fucking-“ Thomas spits out, his voice twisted with anger, a thousand furious insults jumping to mind, but his father holds up a hand to silence him before he can get them out.

“Careful, Thomas.” He warns, his eyes glinting unpleasantly. “I know you may have acquired delusions of grandeur since becoming Lord of Windsor, but I am still your King. You would do well not to forget that.”

Thomas lets his head fall down, his gaze trained to the floor.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” He mutters through gritted teeth.

“Everything I did, I did for you. Because you are soft and ill-fit to rule, and you needed to be tested. If you choose to resent that, go ahead, but do not ever be tempted to stand there and throw slurs at _me_. I do not care that I am your father, I will be forced to bring the same sentence down upon your head as any other fool guilty of blasphemy. Remember, you are my servant first, and my son second.”

Thomas gives a short, sharp nod, eyes still lowered.

“I think it would be best if you stay here in Westminster, seeing as you are obviously incapable of Lordship.” The King states with a disinterested sigh. Thomas looks up, feeling emboldened by this fresh wave of rage inflicted upon him by his father’s words.

“No.” He says through gritted teeth. His father’s widened eyes snap to his.

“I’m sorry?” The King says in a tone that suggests he might be inclined to forget Thomas’ words if he refused to repeat them. But Thomas doesn’t care.

“I said no, father.” He repeats. “You’ve made it abundantly clear what you think of me, but I disagree. What you call cowardice, I call self-preservation; what you deem to be weakness, I know is caution; whatever you find to be shrewd, I find to be ruthless and cruel. You think I’m stupid because I don’t believe in the same things as you, but what good have you really brought England with that belief system? I have done everything you have ever asked of me, completed every task, and yet still you are not happy. So perhaps the problem is you, father, and your complete inability to treat your own son with even an ounce of the respect he deserves. Now, I am going to return to Windsor Castle, I will continue as its Lord, and if you ever do anything to undermine my position ever again I will lead a coup against _you_, father. I wouldn’t care if I succeeded, I never even wanted to be King, but I would just love to see the look on your face when you realise that your son is capable of so much more than you ever imagined, capable of taking even you down.”

Thomas keeps his eyes trained squarely on his father’s face, however much he wants to look away, refusing to lose the battle of wills. There is a moment of tense silence, and then his father looks away. He leans back in his chair

“It seems you might have a backbone after all.” The King says with grim approval. “Now get out of my sight.”

Thomas doesn’t need to be told twice.

Turning rapidly on his heel, he marches the length of the hall, the time taken to cross it halved by Thomas’ furious pace. Once out in the corridor, he stops to take a breath, his stomach lurching sickeningly. But there is a quiet confidence to his rage now, a resigned awareness that he has said the worst possible thing he ever could of to his father, and he has survived it. A pattering a footsteps behind him reminds Thomas of Joseph, who, in his haze of fury and unwelcome realisations, had been completely forgotten.

“Tommy, wait!” Joseph calls, and Thomas spins round to confront him.

“Did you know?” He spits out, his voice breaking slightly.

“What?” Joseph replies, incredulous.

“Did you know that Father was sending that man to kill me?”

“No! No, of course I didn’t!” Joseph cries, raising his arms in a defensive gesture.

“Why would he do that to me, Joe? I’m his son, why would he inflict that upon me?”

“I don’t know, Tommy. I suppose he had his reasons, but it’s hard to see them clearly.” Joseph mutters, his brow furrowed.

“He’s fucking insane.” Thomas cries out brokenly, waving his arms about just for the sake of doing something, anything, to dislodge the lump in his throat. It doesn’t work.

“Be careful, Tommy!” Joseph hisses, his eyes becoming wide. “You can’t let anyone hear you say that.”

“I don’t care! He let me believe for months that someone was trying to kill me. Months!”

“I know, I know, please just-“

“I was so terrified, I was so terrified for nothing.” Thomas interrupts Joseph, almost laughing at the incredulity of the situation, but too angry and hurt to do anything but pace.

“That is understandable, but I don’t think you should be saying these things in so public a space, Tommy.” Joseph succeeds in halting Thomas’ frantic circular pacing and he plasters a shaky smile over his face. Personally, Thomas sees little point in hiding his open contempt for the King, having already, in a manner of speaking, threatened to kill him.

“Just, don’t pay it any mind, Tommy. Let’s talk about something else, ok?” Joseph puts an arm around Thomas’ shoulders and starts to lead him down the corridor. “Tell me about this maiden of yours. Is she pretty?”

“What?” Thomas sighs, only half listening, his mind still reeling.

“I want to know of this girl who has captured my brother’s heart! She must be special if you turned down the marriage proposal simply to be with her.” Joseph grins.

Thomas frowns and detaches himself from Joseph’s side, stilling their walking. He takes a deep breath, thinking, evaluating how terrible an idea it would be to reveal himself to his brother. But they have always been so close, and Joseph is not a judgmental person.

“Joe, what if I told you that it isn’t a girl?” Thomas says tentatively, testing the waters, and Joseph raises an eyebrow.

“Not a girl? So… a woman then? An older woman?” Joseph frowns.

“No, Joe.” Thomas sighs, regretting even saying anything. “It doesn’t matter. Just forget it.” Thomas’ voice shakes, and Joseph takes a step closer, his eyes filled with worry.

“What’s the matter with you, Tommy?”

“I-I can’t tell you, I really can’t, Joe.” He starts to walk away, but Joseph catches his arm before he can.

“No! Please just talk to me.” Joseph pleads. “We’re of the same flesh and blood, you and I, you can tell me anything.”

Thomas wishes it were true, he wishes he could speak as freely of William as any other man in love could speak of their lady, but he is not naïve, not anymore. Thomas knows that he should end their conversation there and then, knows that he would be putting William in danger as well as himself if he continues to speak, but Joseph is looking at him with such concern, his eyes wide and anxious and caring. And Thomas’ blood is hot from arguing with his father, his inhibitions lowered. What more damage could he do?

“The person that I love… well, it’s a… he’s a knight.” Thomas whispers, his voice low and shaking. Joseph stares at him for a very long moment, his expression not changing as if he had not yet processed Thomas’ words. Then he takes a step back, his eyes going a little wide.

“A… knight?” Joseph breathes out, his arm dropping from where it holds Thomas’.

“Yes. His name is William.” Thomas replies, trying to keep his voice level but almost choking up when he realises that it is the first time he has uttered William’s name since that terrible afternoon.

“Tommy, I don’t understand. This William, he is your friend?”

“That and more. Soulmate, partner, lover… I’m sure you’d rather I spare you the details, Joe.” Thomas says with a soft chuckle. Joseph mouths each word Thomas speaks, _soulmate, partner, lover, _and sucks in a harsh breath through his teeth. He leans closer to Thomas.

“You’re a sodomite? Is that what you’re telling me, Tommy?” Joseph whispers, his eyes wide and fearful. Thomas frowns and looks away.

“If that’s what you want to call it.”

“Well, what would you call it then?”

“I don’t need to call it anything, Joe.” Thomas snaps, and then runs a hand through his hair with absent-minded frustration. “I know that it is love, so why does it matter?”

“Because it’s a sin, Tommy.” Joseph says quietly, as if he were explaining something very simple to someone very stupid, as if Thomas were a child who needed reminding of why he shouldn’t throw his food around when eating it.

“Not to me!” He cries out angrily, and Joseph flinches slightly at the rage in his voice.

They descend into an awkward silence, Joseph still staring into Thomas’ face with a mixture of fear and disbelief.

“Will you tell Father?” Thomas asks after a while, trying to sound nonchalant but failing to keep the panic from his voice.

“No, Tommy. I wouldn’t do that to you.” Joseph replies in a quiet voice and Thomas breathes a sigh of relief, his heart unclenching.

“Well, I suppose that’s more than I deserve. Thank you, I guess.” Thomas smiles shakily, but Joseph does not return it. “I know it’s probably not what you’d want to hear but-“

“I don’t want to talk about this right now, Tommy. I think we should just forget about it.” Joseph interrupts Thomas, his tone stern. Thomas pauses, feeling incredulous.

“I _wish_ I could just forget about it! You have no idea how much I wish I could-“

“Just be quiet for a minute, Thomas!” Joseph snaps and Thomas recoils as if he has just been slapped. Joseph fixes him with a cold, admonishing stare and Thomas wilts under it. A cold panic flushes through him then, an aching cavity opening up in his chest with the gravity of his actions just now catching up to him.

“I shouldn’t have said anything. Fuck… I… Please can you just forget what I said? Please, Joe, just fucking forget everything I just told you. I didn’t mean it, I didn’t…” Thomas mumbles, his voice broken and distorted by dread.

“Tommy, it’s alright.” Joseph sighs, his face suddenly weary.

“No it isn’t! It isn’t alright, and it won’t be ever again because… because I’ve ruined it. Why did I have to open my big fucking mouth?”

“Well, it’s too late to take it back now, so you’ll just have live with that, won’t you?” Joseph says in a matter-of-fact tone. “And I’ll just have to live with it too. But don’t tell anyone else, ok?”

Thomas doesn’t reply.

“Ok, Thomas?” Joseph reiterates more sternly, and Thomas gives a sullen nod of his head. They descend into silence.

“You hate me now.” Thomas says miserably after a while, his bottom lip shaking slightly. He hates how childish he sounds, but the wretchedness he feels inside is too overwhelming to abide by.

“I could never hate you, Tommy, you’re my brother.” Joseph says with an exasperated sigh.

“But you are disgusted by me, aren’t you? Aren’t you?” Thomas retorts, feeling masochistic.

Joseph doesn’t reply, and that just makes Thomas feel even worse than if he’d agreed with the statement. He claps a hand over Thomas’ shoulder and tries to smile, but he refuses to let their eyes meet.

“Come on, let’s just go do something else. I have a new chess set we could try out, all the way from the Iberian Peninsula! Solid ivory and everything. How does that sound? I might even let you win.” Joseph tries to sound cheery, but Thomas sees straight through it.

“No, that’s ok. I think I’d rather be alone right now.”

“I haven’t seen you in months, Tommy! Don’t be like this, just because of a stupid-“

“It’s not stupid, Joe!” Thomas interrupts Joseph with an angry shout. “_I’m_ not stupid.”

“I never said that!”

“But you were thinking it.”

They fall silent. Thomas scrubs a hand over his face with resigned exasperation.

“It’s fine. I’m fine. But I really need to be alone now, Joe. I’ll speak with you later, ok? At dinner, we can speak.” Thomas assures Joseph, and then he turns on heel and walks off down the corridor, trying to fight back the urge to cry. The thought of his father finding him with tears in his eyes is enough to dam them for now, but the lump in his throat and the ache in his chest does not go away for the rest of the day.

And they do not speak at dinner.

Thomas spends most of the meal in silence, only opening his mouth to accept or decline wine or food from the servants who offer it. He worries that if he were to do any more than this, he might just burst into heaving sobs, right at the dinner table, and then his father would really have something to write home about.

With every worried glance that Joseph gives him, Thomas curses himself for thinking he could confide in his brother, for thinking that he would accept him. One kind word and suddenly Thomas is an open book, it is truly pitiful. Loneliness certainly is a dangerous thing, and Thomas has never felt so alone in his life, the crushing weight of it threatening to engulf him whole. And now, just because he couldn’t be trusted to keep quiet, yet another person holds the key to his downfall. Yet another person knows the truth that dangles so treacherously over his head like the Sword of Damocles.

Thomas manages to prevent himself from crying with the promise that he will be able to release the floodgates later, in the privacy of his own chambers. But even when he lies in bed that night, Thomas still finds some part of him that forbids him from allowing even a single tear to fall, the strain of the day having reduced him to a barren wasteland of emotion, too miserable to even cry. And so, for lack of any other activity to distract him from his thoughts, he lets himself drift off to a dreamless sleep, although he might have preferred even a nightmare or two. At least then he could pretend to be living a separate life, if only for the few hours between midnight and dawn.

The next morning, Thomas takes a stroll through Westminster Gardens, punctuating every footstep with a melodramatic sigh that almost makes him feel better. On his third circuit of the lawn, Joseph, who is panting as if he had run across the grass to join Thomas, falls into step beside him.

“I’m glad to have found you out here.” He says in between deep heaving breaths. “It’s more private than the corridor.”

“Oh.” Is all Thomas can think to say.

“How are you feeling?” Joseph asks, tentative.

“Fine.” Thomas replies curtly.

“You didn’t seem fine at dinner last night.” Joseph presses on, and Thomas rolls his eyes.

“That’s strange, because I’ve actually never been happier.” Thomas scowls, trying to keep the sarcasm from his voice but failing miserably. Joseph frowns and reaches his arm out as if he wants to stop Thomas’ walking, but seems to reconsider at the last moment.

“I think we should talk about-“

“Listen, Joe, you can stop with the false concern. I know what you must think of me.” Thomas interrupts, halting his walking and turning around to face his brother. He crosses his arms over his chest, as if they might offer some sort of protection. Joseph sighs, his face falling and his shoulders deflating.

“Yes, well I’ve decided that it doesn’t matter what I think.” Joseph says quietly, and Thomas is taken aback.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re my brother, Tommy. That’s more important than anything.” Joseph admits, bringing a hand to rest on Thomas’ shoulder.

“I don’t understand. What are… what are you saying, Joe?” Thomas stutters, his heart suddenly beating very fast in his chest.

“You’re not fine! You’re in pain and-“

“No, I’m not.” Thomas interrupts Joseph with gritted teeth, shrugging off the hand on his shoulder, but Joseph just sighs wearily and places it there again.

“You’re in pain, Tommy, and, whether I meant to or not, I have only made that pain worse. I am ashamed of that, I really am. But you have to understand that I am _worried_ for you. I laid in bed all last night unable to sleep, just imagining every terrible thing that could befall you because of this… this path you have chosen.”

“I didn’t choose to fall in love with William! It just happened!” Thomas protests, attempting to jerk backwards, away from Joseph. But he doesn’t manage to get very far with Joseph’s hand still clamped onto his shoulder, so he just performs a strange little hop on the spot.

“I know, I know.” Joseph murmurs, his tone soft and soothing. “Come here.” He continues, pulling Thomas in for a hug. As soon as the arms go around him, Thomas feels his carefully constructed walls starting to crumble down around his feet.

“I’m so sorry, Tommy. I’m sorry for asking you to take me into your confidence and then throwing it back in your face. It won’t ever happen again.” Joseph mutters, his words muffled slightly by Thomas’ hair. “I don’t care who you are, Tommy, the only thing that matters to me is that we’re family. And I will do anything to protect my family, especially after what happened with Jane.”

“Really?” Thomas whispers brokenly, feeling overwhelmed.

“Really.” Joseph states with conviction, and Thomas feels his last round of defences disintegrating.

“I’m so scared, Joe. Every day it just gets worse and worse and worse and I don’t know what to do anymore.” Thomas croaks, his voice shaking with emotion. Joseph squeezes him impossibly tighter.

“It’s alright, Tommy. I won’t let anyone hurt you, I promise.” He says, and then pulls away, fixing Thomas with an apologetic grimace.

“I never should have said those things to you, yesterday. I am truly sorry.” Joseph says gravely, and Thomas shrugs, trying to hide his sniffles.

“It’s alright, I probably would have said the same things too.”

“It isn’t alright.” Joseph shakes his head, but then he laughs. “I have to say, this has been the most dramatic twenty-four hours of my life.”

“And that’s my fault?” Thomas protests.

“Well, yes, it is actually.” Joseph grins, and Thomas pushes him. Joseph laughs and reaches over to ruffle Thomas’ hair.

They make their way back to the Palace, pausing once or twice to chase the other and tackle him. Thomas knows his father would become irate if he saw his two sons acting like ten-year-olds, but it just feels nice to pretend to be children again, to pretend to be care-free and innocent. 

In the entrance hall, Joseph turns to face Thomas again, leaning in close.

“Tommy,” He whispers, “I know I can’t control your actions, and I most certainly do not want to hear about them either, but you will promise me to be careful, won’t you?”

Thomas wants to tell him that there is little use in being careful when he most likely won’t even see William’s face ever again, let alone partake in any of the activities that might put him in opposition to the law, but he stops himself. He doesn’t want to voice those words or put them out into the world where they could become objective fact. Because, for the first time in weeks, or at least since William left, Thomas can feel something very like optimism starting to grow inside of him, and he’d rather not extinguish it just yet.

****************************************

During the journey from London back to Windsor, the idea that Thomas could simply write a letter to William muscles its way into his head.

He tramples it down almost immediately, telling himself that even if he knew where to send a letter to, which he does not, he doubts William would even want to hear from him. He had made it extremely clear that they should never see each other again, and Thomas wishes to respect that.

And then Smith makes an offhand comment about receiving news of William from Oxford, where he had returned to take up his last post, and Thomas is thrown into the mental turmoil of the conundrum all over again. At first, he is upset by the fact that William had taken the trouble to write to Smith, of all people, and not him. But then he concedes that it only makes sense, what with William so desperate to avoid any contact between them, in case he be tempted again. But then, further still, Thomas reasons that perhaps William had only written to Smith to tell him of his location so that Thomas would know where to find him.

Thomas turns the situation over and over again in his head, a torturous, cyclical dilemma that leaves him feeling even more confused every time he thinks he might have found an answer. And it only continues once he reaches Windsor, especially now he has the means to enact his plans, if he even wants to enact those plans. And so, after engaging with all the tedious duties that arise with his arrival, namely a two-hour long conversation with his mother, Thomas runs off to his chambers the first chance he gets to draft a letter. And then rip up the letter. And then draft another letter. And then rip up that letter too. Over the course of a sleepless night, the hearth receives more parchment to fuel its fire than ever before.

And then finally, with dawn peeking its way through the heavy, silk curtains, illuminating each particle of dust in its path, Thomas sets down his quill for good, and picks up the parchment, bringing it close to his face. The inked words appear as a blur to his tired eyes, but he forces them to focus, forces himself to read it through, from the top.

_William,_

_A fortnight has passed since I last saw your face, but each day has felt like an eternity. And though my heart breaks all over again every time I look around for your constant presence only to remember that you are not there, I struggle on. In your absence, life has continued: I arrived back at Windsor from my tour of the counties to learn that Myrtle is having puppies, and from this I can infer that the cycle of living and dying is the same as it always been. I have survived you, just as you predicted. But it is not a life worth living. Do you remember that fateful moment of our first meeting? How you plunged your sword into that man and prevented him from driving a dagger into my heart? You saved my life that day, and you say that you are saving my life by staying away from me now. But what if life is meant for more than just surviving?_

_I cannot conceal the true purpose of this letter, which is to beg you to come back. I know you are scared, I am scared too, but the prospect of spending the rest of my days without you is more terrifying by far. What makes it worse is that I have no way of knowing whether you echo these thoughts of mine. You could have already forgotten me, or, conversely, be just as broken by our separation. I don’t know which I would prefer, for I hate to think of you in pain, but I cannot abide by the thought that our love was not just as real for you as it was, and still is, for me. William, you have to know how desperately every breath of air in my lungs and every drop of blood in my body and every lock of hair on my head along with all the rest of me call out for you, their master, because I cannot remember what joy my life had before you came into it. What purpose did my body have before you embraced it, before you filled my mouth with the honey of your kiss, before you turned every inch of my skin to gold with just a touch of your fingertips, before you, you, you? If you were here, and I said these things to you, you would laugh and call me melodramatic, and then you would cover my mouth with yours and all would be right with the world. But, then again, if you were here I might not have the courage to say these things at all. So allow me these penned declarations, the parchment is a good buffer between us, it lets me say things I would never be able to say to your face. Like how I have kept your ring with me always, having affixed it to a golden chain that keeps it hanging from my neck, directly over my heart. And how, in my dreams every night you make love to me, just like the first, perfect time, and every morning I awake, expecting you to be there, but the bed is invariably cold and empty. And how I love you and I hate you in equal measure and I will never forgive you for leaving. _

_You must return to me, for I know that if you are experiencing even half the pain which every day without you brings me, then I know that you must be in agony, and this pain needn’t be felt, my love. I do not ask for much, but I do ask for this, and I swear I’ll never ask for anything else ever again._

_Yours for all eternity and thereafter,_

_Thomas._

_P.S. I lied. I will always forgive you, but only if you come back. I don’t need you to protect me anymore, but I still want it with all my heart._

With shaking fingers, Thomas folds up the letter and pours wax over the seam. Taking his signet ring from his finger, he stamps it into the seal, and then, after a moment’s thought, whilst the wax is still malleable, takes the golden chain that lies under his shirt out, and uses William’s signet ring to stamp the Schofield crest beside his own. The two embossed crests merge together in the red wax, distorting the other until they appear as one, conjoined pattern. If this is the closest Thomas will ever be to William again, at least he has the physical evidence to show for it.

Thomas does not let himself think upon it, because he knows that if he does, he will be tempted to throw the letter into the fire along with all of its predecessors. Rising from his chair, he goes to find a rider to deliver it.

And he does not get a reply for ten whole days, each one passing with hellish apprehension. Awaking every morning, Thomas wonders if today is to be the day he hears from William, and every night he goes to sleep disillusioned, doubting whether he will even receive a letter at all. By the time he has almost condemned the whole idea as a complete failure, he is, finally, interrupted by a servant at his chamber’s door with news of post.

“There is a letter for you, my Lord. It is unmarked, no crest in the seal, either. Do you wish to read it?” The servant asks, stepping tentatively into the room. Thomas spins around in his chair, trying to seem indifferent to this news.

“Yes, thank you, bring it here. And close the door on your way out.” He says with a wave of his hand.

After handing him the letter, the servant bows and leaves, and Thomas waits until he hears the receding footsteps before tearing into the seal hungrily, his breathing ragged. But he forces himself to slow down as he takes the words in. And as his eyes move down the page, he cannot help the smile that splits his face in two.

Hope.

It blooms in Thomas’ chest like blood over cotton, spreading through his entire body until he cannot help the choked sob that bubbles up and out of his lips. He hadn’t wanted to get his expectations up for fear of disappointment, but now it seems he needn’t have worried. He reads the words three more times to make sure he didn’t mistake the meaning, but the smile never leaves his face.

Holding the letter pressed to his heart, Thomas lets his gaze drift to the view outside his window. For the first time in weeks, he doesn’t resent the sun its dazzling rays.

****************************************

Court is usually a perfunctory affair. There is often little monastic business for Thomas to attend to, now less than ever what with his father still weary of Thomas’ political expertise. Thomas receives the dregs, the run-off pile of matters to attend to that filters down from London, very little affairs of importance and even less of interest.

But today the hall is nearly full. Taking his seat at the head table, empty except for him, Thomas stares around at the sea of faces, many of them unfamiliar.

A man enters the hall, quietly, surreptitiously, and then stops, looking around, searching. No one but Thomas notices him come in. No one but Thomas cares. Their eyes meet across the room, blue into blue, and the man walks forward, his gait slow and considered. He finds an empty space on a nearby bench and lowers himself onto it, nothing to suggest his existence to the rest of the room besides a slight clanking of armour against wood. But Thomas has become specifically attuned to the sound of that armour after so many months of hearing it chiming, ringing out as the man who wears it walked behind him. He would know the sounds of William’s presence anywhere.

Thomas clears his throat and tries to press on, feeling his cheeks start to heat up, his heart beating very fast. But it is near impossible. William is staring very intently at Thomas, the ghost of a smile flickering over his lips and it is all Thomas can do not to end court there and then, brush away everyone else with a disinterested wave of his hand, walk through the hall and out into the corridor, William rising from the bench and following quietly behind, just as it always had been before. And then they would kiss, urgently, desperately, drawn together by an irresistible force, making up for every day spent apart. And then Thomas would invite William to his chambers, and they would rectify every sore word spoken with a new conversation of skin against skin, carnal, but no less adoring. And then, after, with the sweat cooling off their bodies and a new set of bruises marring Thomas’ lips and shoulders and hips, William would apologise and tell him that he’ll never leave him again, not now he’s felt the sting of their separation, not now he has had to endure a brief taste of life without Thomas by his side.

But Thomas resists the urge. They have time now. Time to talk, to embrace, to relearn the secrets of each other’s skin. The rest of their lives stretching out before them, now that Thomas has found the reason for his existence. Half an hour more is not so much to wait for heaven.

For now, Thomas can be patient.

**FIN**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s it, folks! This has been a fucking whirlwind of a project; I got so much more invested than I ever thought I would, and it ended up double the length I had planned (turns out trying to come up with a cohesive plot that doesn’t contradict itself multiple times each chapter is a lot harder than it seems…) I’m super sad this is over (might have to write an epilogue, maybe with the contents of William’s letter?) But thank you so much to everyone for all of your support, every time I got a notification of a new comment or kudos or a bookmark I honestly squealed with joy: LITERALLY THANK YOU A THOUSAND TIMES OVER I LOVE ALL OF YOU SO MUCH. So how about some discourse on random medieval history, just for old times’ sake? Oh, well if you insist….
> 
> If I went off on a tangent about Medieval London it’s because I’m a weirdo who gets excited by cartographic and architectural history. Now I’m gonna go off on an even bigger tangent just because I can and you can’t stop me. So there. London was very different to the sprawling, cosmopolitan capital it is today (obviously lol, but it is a faux pas to think of this era as the ‘Dark Ages’ in which people just spent their whole shit-covered lives digging up potatoes and torturing people in dungeons before dying from the plague at the grand old age of 26. Trade was pretty booming in London, and, though it was much smaller then, it was still certainly considered the undisputed centre of the entire country.) In 1300 London was basically just made up of Westminster (the monarchic/political centre) and the City of London (the trade/commerce centre), and its population was around 80,000 (as opposed to the 9 million people who live there today). A common opinion of Medieval cities is that they were dirty cesspools of moral degradation, and whilst this isn’t strictly false (they were certainly pretty dirty what with the lack of pavements, so you were basically just walking around on other’s people shit, and a much higher chance of the spread of disease due to the cramped architecture), people still had principles and moral codes. Interestingly, the various moral ‘clean-ups’ organised by the London government, in which they spread panic to the God-fearing public about the number of prostitutes and beggars in the capital, coincide exactly with other major, panic-inducing events. For example, the fear of French invasion in the late 1330s due to the Hundred Years War, the Peasant’s Revolt of 1381, or the Black Death of the 1350s and 1360s. The ruling classes certainly found it a lot easier to incite alarm and prejudice against specific minority groups when people were already feeling a little scared from other nationwide crises (so not much has changed in that regard, then… what a surprise.) Another important thing to note is that London wasn’t just a backwater shithole with no culture and everyone living in higgedy little huts all crammed on top of each other. There is some pretty impressive architecture from this period, ok?? My favourite building is the Temple Church, which is super interesting because it was built by the Knights Templar (Christian militia) to specifically evoke the Temple Mount (their original headquarters) and the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. This church became important because it then constituted a direct translation of the religious power of Jerusalem to London, like a souvenir, so a worshipper could experience that religiosity and closeness to God without having to travel all the way to the Middle East. This extreme sensitivity to how architecture and physical objects can assist in bringing a person closer to the immaterial and indistinct qualities of spiritual worship and the divine is a feat that not many people associate with those living in the Middle Ages, and that makes me sad. The power of art has been recognised since the dawn of time, it is not just a modern invention; and, in fact, I am of the opinion that people in the Middle Ages were even MORE attuned to this power, not less. Fuck everyone who says the Renaissance constituted a magnificent renewal of all the great artistic prowess from the Classical period that had been lost during this undefined, uncivilised middle period. Medieval art is valid. Nuff’ said.
> 
> So, if you were queer, living in the middle ages, and trying to communicate with your lover you would NEVER write them a letter. Like ever. Especially one as candid as Tom’s. Far too risky. But like… artistic license, right? Though my main goal was to make this fic as historically accurate as possible, I did take a few liberties, and this was one of them (I’m a slut for tragic love letters ok??)


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> William's letter.

_To my most beloved Thomas, Lord of my stead and of my heart both,_

_I could not help but marvel at your courage upon reading the letter you sent me; despite my cowardice, you always have valour for the both of us. It is strange, I once believed I was brave, until I met you, and then I discovered that bravery is not simply having the nerve to charge into battle with nothing but a sword and your own steeliness to protect you, but also allowing yourself to be loved. _

_I tried to impede your feelings for me, and I tried to repress my own, but of course neither attempt was successful. As soon as I left you in Alnwick, I wanted nothing more than to turn back, but I was too afraid, or perhaps too stubborn, to face you. Thank you for providing me with the means to correct my error. I know I shall have to spend my entire life repairing the hurt I caused you, but, if you’ll allow me that privilege, every moment will be one of pure bliss, if only for the simple pleasure of being in your presence. And you were right: I was so preoccupied with trying to prolong the lives we have that I did not even stop to think whether they would be lives worth living. Perhaps it is foolhardy to give myself wilfully over to my feelings for you when I know how dangerous it is, but in these past few weeks I have come to realise that a year with you is worth infinitely more than a hundred years without you._

_Your letter, full as it was of your confessions of love that I never deserved but will forever cherish, only gave this fact even more weight. But you say that you have no way of knowing whether I echo your thoughts, and this I find difficult to swallow. I understand that I have not been forthcoming with my feelings, but how can you believe that I do not feel as you do? I don’t have the command of words that you have, Thomas, but even if I did I’m not sure it would matter, because my love for you is wordless. I wouldn’t know how to describe it, anyway. What matters is that I will return, of course, I will always return to you, Thomas. Whatever futile efforts I make to stay away from you have never worked in the past, so why should they work now?_

_I will not pretend that my mind is free of fear; the very prospect of seeing your face again and knowing how utterly incapable I am of resisting you fills me with a terror so profound it almost overwhelms the love I feel. But I want to be brave for you, I want to protect you. This is all I have ever wanted. _

_Keep me in your thoughts, just as I keep you in my prayers, for, despite our sins, you will never be anything less than heaven-sent in my eyes. _

_William._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, that's actually, officially it! 
> 
> I thought about adding a bit of a Will-centric narrative, but I don't tend to be the biggest fan of POV switching, and I think the letter speaks for itself (I hope you all agree)
> 
> Thank you again to everyone who read this, gave kudos, commented etc. I never expected such a wonderful response to my first ever fic, and you guys made all my work 300% worth it *wipes away tears of joy*


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